


You're In The Jailhouse Now

by beingfrozen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Jail, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, POV Stiles, Prison, Seperation, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:37:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingfrozen/pseuds/beingfrozen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On the charge of first degree murder, we the jury find the defendant...not guilty."</p>
<p>"Oh thank God," Stiles said.  Whatever they threw at him, he could take. He figured that as long as no one believed he actually killed anyone, everything else was peaches.</p>
<p>After the pack finishes hunting a monster, Stiles is arrested for the 'murder'.  Since he can't expose the innocent people of Beacon Hills to the pack and the supernatural, he takes all of the blame, and is forced to live with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Innocent Until Proven Guilty

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fiction work in a loooong time, I'm a bit out of practice. Plus, this is a new fandom for me! Just got all caught up on the episodes. Constructive criticism is not just welcome, I am begging for it!

"On the charge of first degree murder, we the jury find the defendant...not guilty."

"Oh thank God," Stiles said, slumping in his chair, letting his head roll back as the air he was hoarding in his lungs finally was released.  His attorney tapped him on the arm, and with a stern face pointed to the jury.  Stiles rearranged himself in the chair and turned back to hear the other verdicts.  Whatever they threw at him, he could take. He figured that as long as no one believed he actually _killed_ anyone, everything else was peaches. And technically, he wasn’t the one who actually killed him.

“On the charge of conspiracy to commit murder, we find the defendant…not guilty.”

Well, Stiles thought, if we’re still speaking technically, that one they got wrong.  He definitely _planned_ on killing the guy, or at least planned to help werewolves kill him. And the guy in question wasn’t exactly human.  Left on the loose he would have started eating the livers and hearts of young children.  So yeah, maybe Stiles had planned to _help_ murder him.  But no one was going to ever believe that a home-grown high school kid had thought up nefarious plots to murder the out-of-town businessman.  They had absolutely no connection…as far as the general populace was concerned.  Which was good for Stiles, because the general populace was who they picked the jury from.

“On the charge of arson, we find the defendant...guilty as charged."

"Dammit Lydia." He mumbled under his breathe.  He's not pissed she burnt the whole damn place down, it was the only option left at the time.  He was, however, pissed that he was shouldering the blame for it.  For Christ's sake, he wouldn't even know how to _start_ building a flamethrower.  But no one would believe the old 'I was just holding it for a friend when the cops showed up' story, regardless that it was entirely true.

"On the charge of manslaughter, we find the defendant…guilty.”

That one was given.  The dude was dead, and even if Stiles hadn’t planned the murder he had still allegedly burnt the place down, so the death was still his fault in the eyes of the court.  But manslaughter looks better on a college application than first degree murder.  Not much better, but Stiles was counting his few blessings right then.

"On the charge of public indecency, we find the defendant...guilty."

Now that was just unfair.  Stiles had just run out of a burning wreck of building and his clothes were on fire.  Good old ‘stop, drop, and roll’ put out the flames, but the tattered remains of his outfit weren't meant to hold up under the resulting fight. The rigged up weapon of an old knife fitted onto the end of a busted lacrosse stick was unwieldy on the best day, and trying to use it while also trying to hold up your pants, Stiles found, was impossible.

“Finally, on the charge of burglary, we find the defendant…guilty.”

“What?!” Stiles exclaimed, incredulous.  He turned to his attorney slack jawed, hand motioning wildly toward the head juror as the woman took a seat, Stiles’s wide eyes asking how the hell _this_ could have happened.  The stern lawyer face just returned, and the man batted Stiles’s hand down.  He doesn’t know any better, Stiles thought.  But it makes sense; it wasn’t like Deaton could have shown up in court and told them he had given _permission_ for Stiles to break in. He had only done it because the mysterious vet was in a different state on vacation.  Did Deaton even have a family in Wisconson?  Did he even know how to _have_ fun?  And seriously, who doesn’t leave a spare key under the mat? 

They had needed the supplies in the office _immediately_.  Otherwise Stiles would never have had to pick the lock on the front door.  Scott had suggested breaking the window, but at the time Stiles had though ‘No, we don’t want to _break_ anything, we’ll get in _trouble._ Deaton’s our _pal_.  No, really, it’s fine, I’ll pick the lock and _you_ go help Allyson at the car.’ This had left Stiles as the only one on the security tapes, which made it seem pretty freaking likely that he had busted in to steal chemicals to set a fire.  Because _that’s_ the first place delinquents go to steal chemicals, Stiles thought, a _veterinarian’s office._

After the final verdict the rest of the court case was a blur to Stiles; a recess, a judgment, more time talking to his laywer, spending the night in a holding cell _again_.  The next clear event was the following morning when the words ‘five years incarceration starting in a juvenile corrections facility’ came out of the judge’s mouth. 

Stiles looked over to his father, trying to take in what was happening, looking for confirmation or comfort or... _something._   But the Sheriff just had his head lying limply in his hands.  Stiles looked to Scott who just seemed dumbstruck, mouth hanging open and eyes wide.  Scott’s mom was next to him crying, and Allyson was hugging her, trying to be consoling but unable to hide the few tears slipping out from her own eyes.  Jackson and Lydia sat off to the side.  Jackson’s normal smirk was gone, face pale.  Lydia was the picture of composure, but Stiles noticed she was gripping her purse so hard her hands were shaking.  Stiles turned to see the pack in the very back of the room.  Erica and Boyd looked as dumbstruck as Scott, Isaac looked like he wanted to cry but wasn’t going to let anyone see, and Derek…

Derek looked lost.

He looked like he had lost control, and it was the first time Stiles had gotten scared during this whole ordeal.  The pack had fought monsters together, dealt with full moons together, stitched up wounds with stolen sutures together, but this…they couldn’t deal with this.  This was the real world finally catching up with them.  All of the battles and the fighting and the freaky shit they dealt with on their own, they could handle it because it had a different set of rules.  Rules they had been making up as they went along, but rules that worked.  Rule number 1: we stop the bad stuff from hurting people, whatever it takes. 

But the normal rules of the world, the laws that Stiles’s father upheld, didn’t mesh with the pack’s rules.  It was the same way that the supernatural didn’t mesh with the normal world.  When to two collided, things got…complicated.  No one had ever spoken about what would happen when people found out about what the pack had been doing over the last few years.  Shit, Stiles’s biggest worry had been about how to tell _just_ his dad.   And he still hadn't even mustered up the courage to do that.

But what happens when the whole freaking town finds out?  Thanks to a burnt down abandoned strip mall and broken-into vet’s office, they had.  And when they asked about it, Stiles resorted to the one skill he had become really really good at recently.  He lied.  He lied his _ass_ off.

Because the normal world was not ready for the supernatural world, not ready for the pack’s special rules.  So he took the blame, all of it, even the stuff he didn’t actually do.  He would be damned if anyone else had to shoulder any of the burden.  He wouldn’t let the pack weaken by losing more than one member.

And these were the consequences.  The normal-world laws were taking him away from the pack.  And Derek was at a loss because there was nothing he could do about it.  He had no control, he wasn’t the alpha here, couldn’t command people with a look or a curt phrase.  The pack rules were useless, all of the training and the fighting skills were worthless.  They couldn’t fight their way out of this one, and there wasn’t any research they could do to find a weakness or ancient spell that could get Stiles out of this.  Stiles watched Derek’s eyes follow him as the bailiff came and lead Stiles from the court.  Passing out through the side door, they locked eyes and Stiles tried to tell him everything in that one look.

'It’s going to be okay.  Keep the pack together.  Keep them strong.  Don’t let this be for nothing.  Keep fighting.  It’s only five years.  I’ll be back.  Don’t die before then.  Don’t give up.  Don’t back down.  Be a good alpha.  Treat them well.  Teach them everything.  Be nice to Allyson.  Don’t piss off Lydia.  Don’t let Jackson be mean to the others.  Tell Erica she looks nice once and awhile.  Isaac secretly likes when you ruffle his hair.  Don’t boss Boyd around too much.  Scott, god please, help Scott.  Keep my Dad safe, please please please, keep him safe, this is going to kill him.  Keep him safe.  I can’t now, you need to do this.  You need to keep fighting.  Don’t stop now.  It’s only five years. I’ll be back.  We can pick up where we left off.  Me and the pack.  Me and you.  Me and you, Derek.  Please don’t forget me.  Please please please…'

But that’s a lot to put into just one look, so all Stiles could do was say a little prayer that Derek got everything by the time the door shuts.  Then he was led down hallways and through offices, they took his picture and made him fill out forms.  His Dad showed up but their conversation was stinted, awkward.  It ha been stressed between them for a while, but Stiles knows that this will be the final straw.  He and his Dad probably won’t be able to work back from this.  Even now the elder Stilinski’s sentences are short and curt, he’s in cop mode, not dad mode.  Stiles wanted to tell him everything, fall on his knees and plead for him to understand.  But he just nodded and turned to leave when the other officers told him it was time to go.  No hug, not even pat on the arm, they just separated. 

Finally he was pushed in a car and when he got out it was in a place he never thought he would end up.  He walks through the doors in a daze, goes through processing as if in a dream, and it’s not until they drop him off in his room that it sinks in.

 _Holy shit,_ he thought to himself, I am _literally_ in prison.

He looked around the room, taking in the painted cinder block walls, the bed he’s sitting on, built out of the wall, with scratchy green sheets.  The lovely metal toilet/sink combo on the opposite wall really accented the decor of the room nicely, the thought bitterly.  There was a desk also attached to the wall, along with two chairs.  He tilted his head up to look at the bunk above him.  A head peaked itself over the edge, a mess of brownish red hair falling down.  Brown eyes pierced him, and a thin mouth asked a question.

Stiles shook his head, “I’m sorry, what was that?” He asked.

“I said ‘who are you’?”  The boy asked again.  Stiles realized that he was older than this kid.  He’d probably end up being older than most of the other offenders in the building, and not just metaphorically.

“My name is Stiles, I’m your new roomie.” He answered finally, trying to sound friendly.  But wait, he thought, should I be friendly?  Or should I try and act tough?  This was the hard life behind bars, after all.  Maybe he needed to be a bit more guarded than usual.  He’s not worried about defending himself or anything like that.  He’s had enough combat lessons from Derek to handle a tussle with a few delinquents. Sparring against werewolves’ kind of takes the fear out of fighting normal folk.  But he doesn’t know what the other kids are in here for; he should probably stay on the defensive.

“I’m Nick.” The kid answered, and Stiles thinks maybe he’s just being paranoid. “What level are you?” Nick asked, nonchalant.

“Uhh…level?” Stiles’s eyebrows shot up in confusion.  His first thought was ‘How does this kid now about my WoW account?’ but then he realized that wasn’t what Nick meant.  He thinks back to walking in and remembers the building is only one floor, but he’s pretty sure that’s not what Nick is asking either.

“You know, what level are you?”  Nick asked again, as if Stiles simply hadn’t heard him.

“Look, dude, I’m new here, so excuse me if I don’t follow your lingo.  What do you mean by ‘level’?” Stiles asked, using air quotes for effect.

Nick rolls his eyes, “Like, how serious of an offender are you?  You don’t have any books, so you’re at least level 4.  Different levels are allowed to have different stuff.  But anything lower than a 3 is shit, you can’t have anything.”

“Oh.  Well…I’m a…I don’t know, they didn’t tell me.  Or if they did I didn’t hear it.  I wasn’t really paying attention, I was kinda taking in the whole ‘you’re a juvenile delinquent now’ deal and it’s just a lot to mull over so I kinda went through the process on autopilot.  Do they tell you your level at some point?  Because I like that book thing, I would love to get some books in here, I could seriously read forever if I had the right books.  Well, they would end eventually of course, but I mean-”

“You always talk so much?” Nick cut him off.

“Sometimes.” Stiles said, forcing down his nervous word vomit.  He didn’t want to say he talks too much when he gets nervous, because he didn’t want Nick get the wrong impression.  He wasn’t nervous right then, he was just in a new environment and freaking out as the reality of the situation washed over him.  It was sort of like being nervous, but a much deeper and mind numbing fear.  But remember Stilinski, he thought, show no weakness.

Nick slipped off the top bunk and landed on the floor gracefully. He ignored Stiles’s internal struggle and makes his way to sit at the desk.  His walk was casual, practiced. He’s been here for a long time, Stiles realized.  Nick’s voice was calm, “A guard will tell you your level if you ask.  But if you tell me what you did, I can give you a rough guess of where you’ll land.”

“What I did?” Stiles asks, and a much more subtle fear snuck in.  The fear of being caught in a lie, of secrets being exposed.

Nick rolled his eyes again, “What you did to get in here, you dumbass.” He asked, not understanding Stiles’ hesitation.

“Oh…well…”  Stiles ran over it in his head again: the lie.   The one he’s been telling again and again these last few days.  Where he was, why he was there, what he was doing, why he was doing it.  And he realized something.  He was sick of trying to keep track of it all.  He rubbed his hand across his face.

“Do you want the lie, or do you want the truth?” He asked.

“Oh, the truth, definitely.” Nick said, voice full of silky tones of promise.  Trust me, his voice says, I’ll never tell your secrets.  Stiles knows how easy voices can lie, after all, Stiles lies all the time.  So he looks at Nick’s eyes.  Give the dirt, his eyes say, give me the leverage, I want control.   Stiles should know better.

But fuck it.

“The truth is that my best friend is a werewolf and his girlfriend is a werewolf hunter, but she quit that bad habit a while ago.  And now we all hang out with a pack of werewolves and hunt monsters and shit.  So we get word that an Aswang is coming through town, which is this shapeshifting thing that eats unborn fetuses, I won't explain how cause its really gross.  So not good news, and obviously we are all over getting rid of it.  Only we need this stuff called _Datura metel_ which is this flower, it’s also called devil’s trumpet, and we don’t just have shit like that lying around.  But we have a friend who does, only he’s not a werewolf but he is really freaky sometimes.  So he has some in his office, which is locked and he’s out of town, so I break in, totally with his permission, and I grab the stuff.”

“Then we lay this trap in this old strip mall about 5 miles out of town, cause we didn’t want anyone getting hurt and no one goes out there anymore.  So we lay the trap and the stupid thing shows up and my one pal Lydia, who is wicked smart, she thought of this plan to incinerate the flower so the Aswang would breathe it in.  When it did that it would be stuck in its human form and we could kill it, but the thing was wicked fast and she ended up having to just set the whole place on fire.  It wasn’t exactly the greatest plan we’ve ever had, I’ll admit, but we needed some quick thinking.”

“And it worked!  It totally worked because the plant weakened it and then we fought it and managed to kill it.  But someone saw the fire and called the cops, and we didn’t realize until they were nearly on top of us.  Usually you would think the werewolves would hear shit like that, but the fire was really loud I guess, and we all split and I ran to my Jeep.  Luckily everyone else grabbed a different ride because, wouldn’t you know, my Jeep fucking stalls.  So I’m sitting there in a busted Jeep as the cops pull up and see me parked in front of a burning strip mall, clothes all burnt up and gone, flame thrower tossed in the trunk, and a dead Aswang that _looks_ like a normal dude lying burning in the building.”  Stiles laughs then, but it just sounds exhausted and angry. “Then they go through all the stuff and find something from Deaton’s office, I think it was a pen I grabbed on my way out to jot a note down, and they go back there and find the tape of me breaking in.  So they nailed me for everything, except for purposefully killing the guy.  Mainly because I wasn’t dumb enough to tell them this story.”

Nick stared at him for a few moments in silence, and Stiles looked back blankly.  He was bitter, and he was miserable, but most of all he was tired.  But looking at his new roommate, he recognized the look in Nick’s eyes.  He’d seen it a dozen times, on everything from plague phantoms to witches, vampires to chimeras.  It was fear.

 “Dude,” Nick said slowly “You’re messed up.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, sighing, “Yeah, I know.”


	2. Cool Hand Stiles

"You have seriously got to be joking right now."

"Why would I joke about this?!"

"Because if you're not joking then you're obviously out of your god damn mind!"

"I thought this would be what you wanted!"

"Are you for real?! Why would I want this?!"

"Because you're in prison!"

"Oh really?  I hadn't noticed!  Is that what the whole soap fiasco in the shower was about?"

"Stiles!"

"You're not going to break me out of prison, Derek!"

"Why not?!"

"I've only been here for a week!"

Derek looked like he wanted to rip Stile's throat out, but Stiles had become immune to that flavor of glare a long time ago.  They were shouting at each other with loud whispers as Derek attempted to convince Stiles that his little 'incarceration issue' could be solved by forcibly breaking through a few walls and running for his life.  Stiles was not onboard with the plan.  They sat next to each other in the cafeteria during visiting hours, Boyd across the table with senses on high alert for anyone trying to listen to the Great Escape reenactment.

“How did you even manage to get visitation rights?  You were a suspect in, like, a thousand cases, weren’t you?” Stiles asked, motioning up and down Derek’s frame, “How did you get them to let you in?”

“We forged the Sheriff’s signature on a few documents, but that doesn’t-”

“You forged my Dad’s signature?!”

"Look, Stiles, that doesn’t matter right now.  It also doesn't matter if you had been here a week, or a year, or ten years.” Derek said angrily, “I told myself I would get you out of here as soon as possible.  And that means tonight."

Stiles resisted rolling his eyes, "Derek, for the last time, you are not breaking me out of a juvenile detention facility!"

"Why not? You want to stay _here_ forever?" Derek said, motioning outward at the room around them.

"God, drama queen much?  It’s a five year sentence, Derek, and I probably won't be here five years anyway!  I stay on good behavior, focus on classes, and when I turn 18 and they reassess my case I'll probably get parole."

Boyd jerked his gaze away from the guard by the main doors and trained in on Stiles, "Classes?" he asked, puzzled.

Stiles did roll his eyes at that, "Yes, Boyd, classes.  They're not making us break rocks on the chain gang, Jesus.  They have teachers here, we go to school.  With all the advanced credits I have I can probably finish up high school in the next year or two, definitely by the time I get out."

"You should be getting out tonight!" Derek whispered angrily.  Stiles groaned in frustration.

"You're not getting it, Derek!  Right now I'm in prison, yes.  But I'm not a serious offender.  According to the general populace I'm just a nut job that set a building on fire and accidentally killed a guy.  That’s bad enough, but if I break out of prison?  Then I become a maniac on the loose.  They will chase me, and I will be on the run for the rest of my life!"

Derek looked like something was finally starting to make its way through his thick skull, and Stiles wanted to mentally high five himself.  The fighting was far from over, however.

"It doesn't matter if they're looking for you.” Derek said,  “We can hide you. I've done it before; I know how to evade anything they throw at us." Derek argued, "You don't need to worry about-"

"About what, Derek?  Money?” Stiles said, a little loudly.  Boyd tried to shush him, but he didn’t much care at the moment.  He needed to make Derek understand why this was a bad plan.  “Are you going to use your vast family fortune to support me for the rest of my life?  Because if I do this, I can never go to college, or get a job, or get a driver's license, or...or vote! I can't even vote, Derek!  My face will be plastered on every 'wanted' poster in every gas station from here to LA.  I will be less than useless in public, which,” and he dropped his voice back down again, “kind of defeats the point of being the only human in a pack of werewolves!”  Derek huffed and looked to Boyd for back-up, but Boyd just shrugged with the equivalent of ‘The kid’s got a point’ written in his motions.

“Plus,” Stiles added, “If they find me, not only do I go back for a _longer_ sentence, they’ll know that I had accomplices.  And I really don’t think any of the others would do well living the hard life behind bars. Can you imagine if Isaac was locked up here?” Stiles asked, and both Boyd and Derek tensed.  Isaac’s yearning to belong and desire to please had given the whole pack a soft spot for him, and Stiles was not above using that against them.  “Or Erica, Boyd.  What would you do if she got put away?”  Boyd’s face fell, and his fist clenched on the table, claws hidden in his hand.  “Any of the others.  Think about it.  A werewolf locked in a cage, full moon pops up, and you can guess how that would turn out.”

“Then we just make sure you don’t get caught.” Derek said, but a bit of the conviction had seeped out of his voice.  Stiles had him on the ropes, and all he had to do was execute the finishing blow.

“I'm not going to run forever! I don't want to!  And besides..."  He took a deep breath.

"If I escape, I look guilty.  Doesn't matter that they found me innocent of purposeful murder, people will see me on the news and think 'Oh, he ran away from jail, he's a real criminal now, he must be guilty of that other stuff too.'  And then they'll start questioning if maybe killing that guy wasn't an accident.  They'll look back into the fire, look into the dude some more, they'll start asking questions.  And if that happens they'll start finding answers that we _really_ don't want them to find."

Derek stayed silent, and Stiles could see he had won in the way that Derek's shoulders slumped and his eyebrows had fallen to give Stiles one of his patented glares.  This one in particular meant 'You're right and I hate you for it'.  Stile nodded and let out an exasperated 'thank you!' before resting his arms on the table.  Boyd's eyes were back on the guards, but Stiles could see a slight smile on his face.  Apparently he wasn't the only one who had seen some big flaws in Derek's 'Shawshank Redemption' plan.

"It's actually not as bad here as you think." Stiles said, trying to reassure his two friends, "I don't have much to do, but there's not some crazy monster trying to kill me every other night.  I'm not afraid of getting jumped by freaky creatures in the dark.  It's...well, it's boring." He said with a shrug, "Which isn't something I'm used to, so it’s kind of nice."

"So you're saying you're happy that you're in here?" Derek said bitterly.  Stiles rolled his eyes, knowing Derek was just being a sore loser about not staging his own Prison Break spinoff.

"No, I'm not happy about being here.  I'm just trying to make the best of a bad situation." Stiles retorted, "You're always complaining about wanting me to be safe, right?  Well, what's safer than a freaking prison?"

Derek looked like he wanted to keep fighting back, but he just sighed, running his hands over his face and into his hair.  He looked defeated, and Stiles was reminded of the look of hopelessness that he saw in the courtroom.  He realized that this escape plan had been Derek's way of trying to gain control over the situation, to feel like he wasn't useless.  Stiles had been harsh throwing down Derek's plans, but Derek had just been doing what he thought was the right thing.  At least he had _asked_ Stiles first.

Stiles reached out and put his hand on Derek's shoulder.  Derek dropped his own hands down into his lap and looked at Stiles, eyes pleading for _something_ , but Stiles didn't know what he could give him to help.  This, though not dangerous at all, was the most unwinnable situation they had ever been in.

"Thank you," was all he could say, "Thank you for offering to get me out.  But we can't.  It would bring nothing but trouble for the pack, and for you.  I told myself I wouldn't let anyone else suffer in this, and I mean to keep my word on that.  But...thanks."

Derek looked like he was about to shatter, but Stiles just squeezed his shoulder and let his hand fall as the guard announced 'Time's up!’  The three pack mates stood, and Boyd went to embrace Stiles in a bone crushing hug that left him gasping, but laughing. 

Boyd smiled at him, "If anyone gives you any trouble, use that choke hold I showed you." he said.

"Well I'm kind of trying this new thing where I keep out of trouble," Stiles answered, still laughing, "But I'll keep that in mind.  Don't think many of the kids around here are any tougher than a fey prince, though, so I should be good."

Boyd nodded, smiling though that memory was a dark one, and turned to Derek.  The alpha motioned for him to head out, and so Boyd left after giving Stiles one last pat on the arm.  Derek and Stiles stood looking at one another as people filed from the room.  Stiles took a deep breath and walked over to take Derek's hand.

"I know this is hard, Derek." He said, Derek’s gaze locked on their linked hands.  "But it's going to be alright.  Really, it is.  We've been through worse." His voice pleaded Derek to believe his words. Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand, and spoke gently, “Hey there sourwolf, look at me.”

Derek’s eyes slowly rose to meet Stiles’, and the two stood like that for a moment as people ushered past towards the door.

“You can’t do it, you know.” Derek said quietly, “You can’t be in here _and_ keep everyone else from suffering.”

Stiles understood what he meant, the connotation.  He wasn’t talking about keeping the others out of jail, or making sure the town remained blissfully unaware of the chaos that constantly surrounded them.  He was talking about his own suffering, about what had only just started between the two of them that would not be allowed to prosper.  About having one of the few things you care about taken away.

“I’m sorry.” Stiles said again, not sure if there was anything else that _could_ be said.  He used his thumb to rub circles into the back of Derek’s hand, trying to convey comfort without having the words to do so.  There had been so little time.  Only what, Stiles thought, a month?  So short a time that Stiles could remember all of it vividly.  If he had known that Derek was going to survive that witch attack, Stiles would never have said anything.  He would never have held Derek’s bloody and beaten body and spilled out his heart, his fears, his love, his dreams.  At the time, Stiles had thought that Derek was dead, so there was really no harm in saying any of it.  But if werewolves were anything, it was resilient.  He healed, and he woke up, and he had _heard_. And to Stiles’ utter and complete amazement, the not only heard, but Derek had _reciprocated_.

“God, this totally sucks,” Stiles said, exhaling sharply with a harsh laugh, “And it’s totally not fair.  But it happened.  And we need to live with it.”

Derek remained in sullen silence, but Stiles had already known he was a man of few words.  Instead, Stiles read his face, a skill he found he was rather good at these days.  Derek’s mouth was a worried frown, his eyebrows tilted in hard lines and read of determination and defiance.  But his eyes were where the truth was, and his eyes said ‘alone’. Stiles saw the fear in his eyes, the fear that whispered ‘Everyone you love will be taken away. You will always be alone’.

“Everyone out, time’s up!” The guard yelled, staring pointedly at Derek and Stiles.  But Stiles reached up quickly, grabbed Derek’s hair and crashed their foreheads together.  The pain was sharp, but Stiles didn’t care.  Sharp pains left memories.  He wanted Derek to remember these words.

“I’m not going anywhere, Derek.” He whispered so only the werewolf could hear him, “I’ll be right here.”  And Derek’s fingers dug into his waist, and Stiles knew he finally understood everything.  He crashed his mouth against Derek’s before the guard came and grabbed him by the collar, pulling Stiles out of the room.

“Watch out for my Dad!” Stiles yelled before the door slammed shut and the lock clicked into place.

Later that night Stiles lay in his bunk, remembering Derek’s lips, trying to burn that kiss into his memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's kinda short, sorry. I have most of the next chapter written, except freaking verb tenses are kicking my ass. What do you mean I have to keep the whole story in either present or past tense? I can't just randomly change between them in the middle of a chapter? Well damn.
> 
> Also, I started writing this story before all the shit went down with Erica and Cora in the show. So I am going to actively ignore all of that sadness in favor of pretending that everything is rainbows and snuggles. Because denial is the easiest remedy.
> 
> As always, I love to hear constructive criticism , especially since I haven't written in awhile.


	3. A Few Good Packmates

Dokkaebi

A spirit of Korean folklore.  Noted for their love of mischief and pranks, will play tricks on bad people and reward good people with wealth or blessings.  Love to play games, especially wrestling. 

Stiles hummed in thought, and turned the page.

Dökkálfar

Norse dark elves, the opposite of the Ljósálfar (light elves).  Sometimes thought to be dwarves, they dwell within the earth and are swarthy, described as being ‘blacker than pitch’.  Sometimes they are attributed with the ability to move through walls.

Stiles grimaced.  He was less than enthused about anything to do with elves.  Growing up with Tolkien and video games gives one a skewed view of elves.  When the pack had run into them a few months back Stiles had been thilled.  They were supposed to be graceful and extremely intelligent and kinda hauty, right?  Wrong.  In real life, they had tried to chew Scott’s face off and kidnap Allison.  Freakin fey.

The book in his hands was a heavy, leather bound tome that had showed up in the mail for him two months ago.  Stiles originally hadn’t been allowed to have any books, but had stayed on such strict good behavior that he had quickly been bumped up to level 2.  A few books were allowed, as well as family pictures. He had one of the pack, and one that Scott had supplied of Stiles and his Dad.  His Dad hadn’t visited him yet, even though his stay was pushing on six months so far.

Stiles sighed and closed the book carefully.  It was an encyclopedia of sorts, with information on different creatures from myths and legends.  When the guards had handed it to him he was suspicious, but looking through the first few pages had rendered his speechless.  The letter attached was from Derek, and explained that the book was actually a gift from Peter, who had handed it to Derek with the suggestion that Stiles might want some light reading while incarcerated.  Derek had almost not sent it, afraid that it was some sort of trick, but had finally had to acknowledge that Stiles would probably benefit from having it.

Stiles didn’t see how Derek could dislike the book, even if it was from Uncle Pycho.  They had thought that the bestiary was all that they would ever get to warn them about what other creatures were out there.  Apparently Peter had found the book online and had been hoarding it for the right time, maybe as a bargaining chip or maybe as a Christmas present.  Peter was strange like that.

But Stiles loved it.  He read it every day, bits and pieces at a time.  The book was thick with tiny typeface; he had only made it through to the D’s so far despite having it for so long.  Derek had warned that many of the creatures in the book probably weren’t real; it wasn’t an account of sightings like the Bestiary was, just a collection of stories and tales.  Stiles took most of the descriptions with a grain of salt, but overall he had learned never to dismiss facts about the supernatural for being too ridiculous.  Sometimes the things you thought were too crazy to be real turned out to be the truest. 

He saw the book as a method of planning for his future.  Stiles knew that he would eventually get out of prison, and when he did he would most likely go back to the lifestyle he had lived before.  He had no question that he would spend the rest of his life working with, or more aptly fighting against, the supernatural.  It’s not something that you can see once and simply walk away from.  He knew too much, about the scary things in the dark and the monsters under the bed, to walk away from the pack.

He didn’t quite know what he would do specifically. It’s not like he was going to be able to get a liberal arts degree in Supernatural Shit with a minor in Werewolf Pack Dynamics.  Actually, the fact that he was currently in jail seriously put a damper in his ability to even get accepted to a decent college.  He would most likely end up going to the nearby community college, where he could get a degree in something or other.

Maybe a science degree would be useful.  He could help Lydia make stuff that explodes, which didn’t sound all that bad.  Or maybe something like criminal justice.  That thought made him chuckle a little, it was just such a Hallmark movie in the making.  Kid gets locked up when he’s underage, redeems himself by going back to school, and becomes a police officer to keep kids off the street.  Only he would most likely be using the degree to keep the pack out of the hands of the law, which was probably much less worthy in the eyes of Hallmark.

Regardless of what his future held, the best thing he could do right then was to research.  He had the book, and he had a hell of a lot of spare time.  So he read up on the kinds of creatures that might try to kill him when he was finally out of this place and ready to go back to fighting evil.

But besides the research, the book was extreme useful for another aspect of Stiles’ life.  The part where he was trying _really_ hard to not lose his mind.

Cause you see, the supernatural is really easy to believe in when a dark elf from Norse mythology is chasing you through the woods.  But when you’re not being constantly exposed to those kinds of things, you start questioning their existence.  Now, Stiles had enough scars to know that the things that had happened to him were real.  But every once and awhile the sneaking suspicion of whether or not he was making it all up was starting to creep into his mind.

It made sense that he would begin to question himself; everyone else was questioning him all the time.  When he blabbed to his roommate the first night he got there, he hadn’t realized that the rumor would spread that he was a total and complete nutjob who still believed in fairies.  A few of the other kids decided he was an easy target and started ragging on him about it, which Stiles ignored completely.  Stiles had been telling Derek the truth that first week, he wasn’t going to do anything to get into trouble.  But when the kids couldn’t get a rise out of him, they resorted to more physical measures.  Or at least, they had tried to, but if you can dodge a wrench you can dodge a ball.  Or more applicable, if you can dodge a werewolf you can dodge a juvenile delinquent. They couldn’t lay a finger on him.

Regardless that no one had actually gotten hurt, that fiasco had landed Stiles in a therapist’s office.  Said therapist then spent many sessions explaining why the supernatural wasn’t real and Stiles’ fascination with it was unhealthy.  Stiles nodded and agreed and promptly ignored it all once he left the room.  But every once and awhile Stiles would look around the room and think ‘What if I actually _am_ crazy?  What if I made it all up?  What if the scars are self inflicted and I’m even more broken than I thought I was?’  And that scared the hell out of him.

Those thoughts were few and far between, mainly because of the book, and because of Derek’s letters.  Every week he would get a letter, they were never more than a few sentences.  Nothing deep, nothing profound, nothing that could be related back to the pack or the stuff they were doing.  Just a few sentences about what was going on that only Stiles would understand.

He put the book down and reached over to the desk to grab the last letter Derek had sent.

_Stiles,_

_Last week’s visitors still staying at my place.  Party tomorrow night, they seem to be on board with the plan and ready to help around the house.  I think Erica is coming down with the flu, won’t be feeling well for the party, but she’ll be okay._

_Derek_

Perfectly innocent, but to Stiles it read deeper.  Another pack was staying with Derek, they had showed up last week looking for lodging.  Derek had unwittingly agreed.  At the time Derek had sent this letter the full moon was the next night, but it seemed like the other pack was ready and wouldn’t make any trouble.  The part about Erica was an ongoing issue that Derek had been keeping Stiles updated on.  Erica had been having trouble finding her anchor, and it was still difficult for her during the full moon.  Stiles picked up a pen from the desk and a piece of paper to write a reply.

_Derek,_

_Hope the party goes well: be responsible, watch out for the rest of the gang, you know they can get reckless.  Some of them may try to impress your guests with their amazing party tricks, and we wouldn’t want that._

_Maybe Lydia can help with party decorations?  She and Allison might have an idea of how to help Erica too, it might be a ‘girl power’ kind of thing._

_Stiles_

That seemed good enough: a reminder to keep everyone in check during the full moon and keep them from trying to tussle with the other pack, reminding Derek that Lydia probably had a good backup plan in case of emergency, and a hint about getting the girls together about Erica’s issue.  He had started thinking that it may be an issue with Erica being the only female werewolf in the pack, the other girls could help her out.

He folded the letter and stuck it in the envelope.  Just as he was about o affix the stamp, the door to his room clicked open and a guard walked through.

“Stilinski, you’ve got visitors.” He said, and Stiles whipped his head around to his clock.

“Dude, it’s nine o’clock at night.  Visiting hours are way over.”

“Are you gonna argue, Stilinski, or are you gonna come with me?” He asked, motioning out the door, and Stiles quickly got up, lanky arms and legs flying, to follow the guard out.  He dashed back momentarily to grab the letter off the desk.

It had to be Scott and him mom.  Visiting hours were only available to family, and there were strict regulations and checks for anyone else.  How Derek and Boyd had managed to get in during his first week, even with the Sheriff’s faked signature, was beyond Stiles.  There must have been some serious bribery or blackmailing going on in the background, but Stiles wasn’t about to complain. Other than that first visit Stiles hadn’t seen anyone for a while, until Scott and his mom had come by.  Apparently they had been going through all the necessary channels to _legally_ visit Stiles, and had been cleared for monthly visits.  Something must have come up that they came so late, but at least Stiles could give them the letter for Derek.

Stiles walked with the guard to the cafeteria, mildly wondering why this visit wasn’t being done during normal visiting hours.  Then a sinking feeling wormed its way in and Stiles realized that this situation was _very very bad_.  If they were taking him to see someone at irregular hours that meant something had happened.  Something _very very bad_ had happened.  Immediately all of the monsters in the Encyclopedia began cycling through Stiles mind; their methods of attack, their weaknesses, their deadliness.  If Scott was here because he needed Stiles’ help, Stiles would need to be prepared to hear that someone was hurt ( _or dead_ , his mind supplied, but that wasn’t something he wanted to think about).  He would need to be ready to supply whatever information he could.

But when Stiles reached the cafeteria it wasn’t Scott ready to speak with him.  Derek stood there instead, hands behind his back, standing up ramrod straight, a look of fear in his eyes.  But not fear like someone had been hurt, the fear of death or loss.  This was a childlike fear, a fear he would be reprimanded for tattling or eating the last cookie without asking.  Stiles couldn’t understand why until he took in the man standing next to Derek, who it took him a moment to recognize because of the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.

“Dad?” Stiles asked, “What are you doing here?”

It came out a bit harsh, which was not what Stiles had intended.  It was just that he had absolutely no idea what was going on, and the idea of his father and Derek coming to visit Stiles _together_ just didn’t compute.  The Sheriff frowned and his shoulders slumped, hand coming up to rub the back of his head.  Derek just looked at the floor.

“Hey kiddo,” The Sheriff said carefully, “How have, umm….you know…how have you been?”

This was way weirder than anything Stiles had imagined would happen.  He hadn’t seen his Dad in six months, and he just turned up out of the blue standing next to Derek, who he also hadn’t seen for some time, and extended an awkward greeting.  He looked to Derek for some kind of confirmation that this was actually happening, but Derek just continued to act like the floor was the most interesting thing he had seen all day.

“Did somebody die?” Stiles blurted out, and his Dad and Derek both looked at him, slightly shocked. “It’s just, these aren’t normally visiting hours so I thought Scott was going to show up and tell me someone was dead or something because I don’t really know why else you guys would be here, especially together because Dad, you’ve never really spoken to Derek outside of a police station, but I guess this kind of counts as a police station cause it’s a prison and-”

“Stiles, you’re rambling,” Derek said gently, and Stiles snapped his mouth closed.

“Sorry,” he said a moment later in a small voice, “I’m just kinda freaked out right now.”

“Listen, Stiles,” His dad breathed, “I know I haven’t really been here since you…you know.” He motioned to the room around them.  His words hung unsaid in the air: _Since you got arrested for arson and manslaughter._

“Yeah, I noticed.” Stiles retorted bluntly, more out of shock than anything else, but also letting a bit of the hurt he’d been feeling seep into his voice.  The Sheriff grimaced, and turned to the guard by the door who had escorted Stiles in.

“Could you give us some privacy, Hamilton?” The guard nodded and stepped out, and the Sheriff took a deep breath and continued, “Stiles, when you got put in here, I…I was upset, and confused, and I thought that I had let you down as a father.” He explained, “And I was afraid you had changed, that you were someone I didn’t know anymore.  I never saw you, you were always out with your friends doing god knows what, coming back at all hours with cuts and bruises-I didn’t know what you were doing and I didn’t want to know because I was afraid I’d have to arrest you.  I was afraid of the person you had become.  It’s no excuse for my behavior but…”

The Sheriff paused, thinking about his next works and Stiles didn’t say anything, for a number of reasons. One, he had been actively lying to his father about his entire life for the good part of a year, making him effectively the worst son in existence. So his Dad’s guilt was somewhat unfounded, and Stiles felt like crap about that. Two, his Dad had a point.  Stiles had been doing some pretty shady stuff, and his Dad had noticed but had never really looked into it.  Stiles realized that his Dad had actually let a lot of stuff slide that a normal cop would have immediately recognized as a red flag and responded to in kind.  And third, Stiles was still confused about what was going on, and he didn’t want to stop this emotional baggage train until it had rolled into the station and he figured out what this was about.

“I just…I thought that if I came here and saw you, that I would be reminded of what I had let happen, the man I had let you become.  And then I would forget about the boy you had been.” The Sheriff said sadly.

“So why are you here now?” Stiles asked nervously, glancing quickly between his father and Derek.

“Because Derek told me.” The sheriff declared, and Derek’s shoulders tensed even more.

That was mysteriously vague.  Stiles looked between the two of them again, arms motioning for more information, “Derek told you what?”

“Everything.” The Sheriff said with a shrug of finality.  It took Stiles a moment before the magnitude of that word seeped in.  When it did, Stiles nearly went into shock from the rush of emotions.  He stood frozen, looking between his Dad’s defeated expression and Derek’s tense frame.  Stiles was terrified, thrilled, even more confused than he had been five minutes ago, and he sorta felt like he might throw up.

“Every-? Seriously, everything? Like, all of it?” He asked, just to clarify.

“Everything,” Derek asserted as well, and Stiles could only stare at them both, jaw agape.

_Everything_.

“Wow, okay, so…everything.” Stiles said, astounded. “So…how do you feel,” he asked, motioning toward his Dad, “about…everything?”

“It was quite a bit of information to take in,” his Dad said, still somewhat tip-toeing around the subject.

“Yeah, I bet,” Stiles mumbled to himself.  He looked to Derek, who had now apparently broken off his affair with the floor and moved on to staring at the wall.  “When did you tell him?” Stiles asked, and Derek’s eyes didn’t move from their gaze.

“Last week,” Derek answered, and then went silent once again.

“I took some convincing,” his Dad picked up, “I talked with Melissa and Scott a lot, finally Derek and the others just had to show me one night.  I’m still kind of having a hard time believing it all.”

Stiles nodded, understanding.  “So you know why I’m here, then?”

A nod, and the Sheriff motioned at Derek, “Hale here told be about the, what was it called, the…the baby eating thing.  About what happened at the strip mall.  And about how you helped stop that thing.”

“So you know I’m not a murderer?”  Stiles blurted out suddenly, feeling like a child again, “Like, not a real one?”  He realized he desperately wanted his father to know that he’s a good person, that he’s not the horrible miscreant the court made him out to be.  He just wanted his dad to love him, to not hate him for the things that he’s done.  He’s become a different person, just like his Dad said, but he wanted him to know that the new Stiles isn’t worse than the old: in fact he’s better, stronger, smarter.  He wanted his Dad to look at him without wishing he had never changed.  Because Stiles was happy about how he had grown, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.  He wanted his Dad to know that he was happy about who he was, to know that the new Stiles was not a bad thing.

“Stiles,” his Dad said softly, “Of course I know,” And all it took was for his Dad to take one small step forward before Stiles was rushing into his arms, hugging him with every ounce of power he had.

“I’m so sorry, Dad, I’m so sorry,” he finds himself whispering with tears brimming over in his eyes.  He sniffed, trying to control himself, “I’m sorry I lied and I’m sorry I’ve been a shitty son.”

“You’re not a shitty son,” his Dad said, holding him just as tightly, “You were trying to keep me safe.  I was upset at first, but I don’t blame you.  Everything you went through, what you’ve seen, Derek and Scott told me all of it.  Damn it, Stiles, the things you’ve done...” and Stiles felt his father’s arms get a little tighter, “What you’ve done is amazing.”

They held on for a moment longer, savoring the long forgotten indulgence for just a minute more.  When they pulled apart they both wiped their eyes with the back of their hands, then laughed gently at the common gesture.  His Dad put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and shook him lightly, a manly gesture to cover that brief swell of emotion.

“Do you really mean all that?” Stiles asked, a bit surprised at how easily his Dad’s taken it all in.  But his father was nothing if not reasonable, and provided with ample evidence even he can change his mind.  He guessed seeing Scott morph into a giant wolf beast was ample enough evidence.

“Yeah, I mean it Stiles,” he affirmed, hand still on his son’s shoulder, “I mean, I wish you would have told me a bit sooner, it’s all a bit much to be putting in the hands of kids,” he complains, voice chiding, “But what you were able to accomplish on your own?  Protecting people, fighting off these kinds of creatures…I’m proud of you Stiles.” And Stiles can’t help but beam at him, feeling like his face is going to crack from smiling.  His Dad not only still loved him, but he was _proud_ of the man that Stiles had become.  Stiles laughed with relief before hugging his Dad again.

“Woah, easy there.” His dad said, patting him on the back.  Stiles pulled back, still smiling.

“So,” he asked, “Can you do anything to, like, get me out early?” and his father’s smile fell almost instantly, “No!  It’s okay!” Stiles backtracked quickly, “I just figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, I wanted to make sure.  I’m fine, really, I’m okay with it.  I knew what I was getting into.”

“You shouldn’t have needed to take this responsibility on your own shoulders, Stiles.” He responded, “I was serious when I said you should have told me sooner.  If I had known what you were doing I could have kept you out of here.”

“Whoa, really?” Stiles asked, incredulous.

“Well…I could have helped _try_ to keep you out.” His Dad admitted, “I am the head of the police department, I could have…held them off or something.”

Stiles laughed, and his Dad smiled again, and everything seemed wonderful for a glimmer of a moment.  Until Stiles looked over and Derek hasn’t stopped his glooming.

“Derek, would you stop trying to seduce the wall for a second and join the conversation?” Stiles demanded abruptly, and Derek turned towards him slowly, painfully.  “Thank you.  Now, what are you freaking out about? You’re killing the good vibes mojo.”

Derek raised his eyebrows in mock confusion, or possibly in surprise that Stiles used the phrase ‘good vibes mojo’.  Stiles fought to roll his eyes, instead settling on a no-nonsense glare, “Don’t try to play coy, Derek, you look like you’ve got a stick up your ass.  Well, you usually look like that, so I guess it looks like you’re got an extra stick up there.”

Derek just winced at the accusation, and the Sheriff let off an annoyed huff of ‘Stiles...’ at the word choice.  Derek glanced at the Sheriff for a moment, and then back to Stiles, “Are you mad?” he asked.

“Mad?  That you told my Dad?” Derek nodded, and Stiles thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think I am.” He confesses, “I mean, I wish I could have been the one to tell him, and preferably not when I was in prison.  But I’m kind of relieved that he knows.  It doesn’t help the current situation, but it stops him from drinking his liver to hell.  So no, I’m not mad.”

Derek relaxed a little, like the weight of his tattle-telling guilt had physically been lifted from him. “You’re sure?” he confirmed.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Stiles said gently, “Why did you tell him anyway?  Did something happen?”

“Last month we had some trouble with a rogue spirit animal.” Stiles nodded, remembering Derek’s letter about the subject.  “It was following a pattern we couldn’t recognize, until we realized he was following your scent,” Derek said, and Stiles balked.

“My scent? Why?  Why didn’t you tell me?” He nearly yelled.

“We didn’t want to get you worried when there wasn’t anything you could do.  And we didn’t even know why he was following your scent in the first place, we still don’t.  But he started going after the Sheriff.  We had a few close calls, and the pack set up a watch on him.” Derek said, nodding in the Sheriff’s direction, “He realized what was going on right around the time we found the omega’s den and moved in to take him out.  He showed up at Scott’s house the next day demanding to know what was going on.  Melissa calmed him down, and Scott called me.”

“I was kind of freaked out when I realized I was being tailed by your teenage friends.” The Sheriff said, “I thought…well, I don’t really know what I thought, but it certainly wasn’t anything to do with werewolves.”

“Well, now that I’m all caught up on the fact that a rogue spirit tried to kill my Dad and no one thought to tell me,” Stiles fumed, “I guess we’re all good.”

“He’s right, Stiles,” his Dad said, “There’s nothing you could have done, and the pack handled the situation surprisingly well.  Although from now on, I would like to know when my life is being threatened.” He said pointedly to Derek, who nodded solemnly

They stood in silence for a moment, everything sinking in. “Wait,” Stiles suddenly realized, and turned to Derek. “Does he know about…you know?”

Derek looked at him in confusion and Stiles motioned back and forth between them a few times.  “You know…us? Like, us-us?”

Derek blushed – actually blushed, dear god – and shook his head no.

“What do you mean ‘us-us’?” the Sheriff asked, voice dropping in cop mode, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Oh god, this is going to be so much worse than elves,” Stiles whined. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to let you guys know I have a tumblr -> http://beingfrozen.tumblr.com/
> 
> Please let me know what you think! The next chapter will take a little longer. I know where I want to go with this story, but I'm not sure how I want to get there. Plus, work IRL is picking up this week, so I'll be busy. Be patient with me, please!


	4. The Beacon Hills Redemption

“They can’t actually be serious, right?” Scott asked, turning to his mother for confirmation, but she only gave him a pitying look.  He turned back to Stiles, aghast, “I mean, why would they tell you no?”

“I don’t know Scott,” Stiles said tiredly, “I really just don’t know, okay?” His elbows rested on his knees, his chin propping his head on the table.  His usual nervous energy was deflated.  He couldn’t stop staring at the paper on the table, even though he knew he couldn’t change the words on the page.

“It doesn’t make any sense!” Scott tried to argue.  His mom just shushed him gently and went around the table to sit next to Stiles.

“Stiles, honey, I am so so sorry,” she said, after she laid a hand carefully on Stiles’ arm, “Your dad is going to try and talk to the court, we’re going to get this figured out.” She reassured. Stiles at least _thought_ she was trying to be reassuring, but it wasn’t working very well.  Stiles let his head roll over, resting his cheek on the cold, plastic tabletop.  It smelt like industrial cleaner.

“We’re gonna figure this out, buddy,” Scott tried again, attempting to mirror his mom’s demeanor, “Your Dad is gonna go in there, guns blazing, and he’s gonna get you out of here.”

“No, Scott, he’s not.” Stiles said, annoyed at all of the optimism pooling around him, “He’s not going to get me out, he’s the reason that his happened.”

“Stiles, how can you say that?” Melissa asked.  Her voice was chiding, but laced with sadness.

“Because it’s true,” Stiles told them, bringing his head up to look at them blankly, “If I wasn’t the Sheriff’s son, they wouldn’t have done this.  They’re trying to make an example of me.”  He reached over and grabbed the paper from the table.  The ugly red stamp at the top still hadn’t changed.

PAROLE DENIED

“It’s not my Dad’s fault that this happened, it just the basic fact that he _is_ my Dad.” Stiles explained, tossing the paper back down, “I’m not mad at him I’m just…” He rubbed his hands over his face, “I’m just frustrated with this whole thing. I just want to go home.”

“I know, sweetie, I know,” Ms. McCall said, drawing him into a hug.  He let his head rest on her shoulder, but he didn’t hug her back.  She began to pet his hair softly, “This isn’t fair,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Stiles, “This just isn’t right, not after everything you kids have done…”

“We’re breaking you out.” Scott announced, as if it was decided, and Stiles just sighed into Melissa’s shoulder, “We’re going to do what we should have done when you got put in here.  I’ll talk to Derek and we’ll find a time to-”

“Scott, no,” Stiles said bluntly, pulling out of Melissa’s embrace, but Scott continued to outline a plan, “Jesus, Scott, would you shut the hell up for a second?” Stiles yelled.  Scott quieted, shocked and slightly ashamed.

“Look, I get it,” Stiles sternly said, “I get how much this sucks.  Believe me.  I’m the one that’s cooped up here, and it’s not exactly my dream-come-true to spend my 18th birthday in prison.  But I’ll tell you the same thing I told Derek when he tried to convince me to break out a year ago: _it’s not going to happen._ ”

“But-“ Scott tried to interject, but Stiles wouldn’t have it.

“No! No buts!  It’s not gonna happen!  You’re not going to break me out!  You’re not going to condemn me to a life of criminality because you can’t stand to not hang out with me on weekends!”

“That’s not why we’re doing it!” Scott argued loudly.

“Really?  Then why, Scott!  You’re not thinking of the consequences!  I’ve already had this argument once, I’m not going to have it again!”

“You’re just being a fucking martyr, Stiles!” Scott yelled, “You’re trying to take all of this suffering onto yourself, and it’s not working!  We need you!”

“Need me for what?” Stiles scoffed, “I’m not like you guys, I can’t fight monsters with my bare hands!  I’m not even as good as Allison with her freaking arrows and shit.  I am practically _useless_.  You don’t need me out there!”

“Stiles, you are not useless,” Melissa broke it, “Look at all of the help you’ve given them, how can you think you’re not needed?”

“What I’m needed for can easily be done from behind bars,” Stiles replied, “Research doesn’t require you to run free through the fields and valleys.  The reason you want me out isn’t because you want me to have access to a better fucking library.”

“Is that so bad?  Is it really such a crime that I want you out of prison because you’re my _best friend_ and I want to hang out with you?” Scott asked, appalled.

“No, it’s not a crime, if it was you would be in here with me,” Stiles mocked, “But it is stupid.”

“Look, that’s not even it, okay?” Scott shot back, “You shouldn’t even _be_ in here.  You’re innocent!  If people knew what you had really done-”

“They would run screaming through the streets out of pure unbridled terror?”

“-they wouldn’t have locked you up.  You saved lives.  You don’t deserve any of this!  That’s why we want to get you out!”  His eyes pleaded with Stiles to understand.

“You think I don’t get it?” Stiles laughed harshly, “You think I don’t realize how messed up this is?  I’ve had plenty of time to sit around in here and think about how unfair this entire situation is.  And yes, I’m being a martyr.  Because that’s the only way everyone else doesn’t have to go through this.  I’ve been here for a _year,_ Scott, and I am so sick and tired of everything.  But I know that the only way it could be any worse would be if the rest of the pack had to sit around in here too and waste away while Beacon Hills was being destroyed by ghost and ghouls and whatever else shows up next week.”

“But Stiles, if we don’t get you out now…” Scott started, but seemed to be unable to finish.

“If you don’t get me out now, I got to big-kid jail, I know.” Stiles huffed, “I got the transfer papers this morning.  It’s a low security prison four hours away.  At least all my good behavior wasn’t a complete waste.” Stiles sarcastically told them.  Scott looked dejected, and Stiles kicked him under the table. “What now?”

“It’s just…” he started, “It’s just, you’ll be so far away, and the rest…we’re all…”

“Graduating,” Stiles finished, and Scott nodded, “You’re all graduating, and Allison and Lydia are going to college way out of town.  Jackson’s going to some posh private school, but it’s not too far away.  Isaac, Boyd, and Erica are all staying close to home, probably a local community college.  You got accepted to a couple state schools but you’re still deciding whether to stay with the pack or go.”

“How did you-?”

“I know you guys, it’s not too hard to figure out.” Stiles told him, “Whatever you or the others decide to do, don’t let me influence your decision.  Do what’s best for yourself.”

“Stiles is right, Scott,” Melissa agreed, “You need to think about your education first.  You two will always be friends, but college is a serious decision.”

“I know, mom, we’ve talked about this a thousand times.” Scott rolled his eyes, and Stiles smiled at this small piece of normalcy that he missed so desperately.

They spoke a bit longer, about where the rest of the pack was going, how things were going to change.  They talked about memories from when things were normal, and they talked about what had been happening while Stiles was gone.  Scott dropped the subject of escape, and Stiles was glad. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want the hope to rise up in his chest again.  Every time he thought about breaking out, more and more of his mind agreed with the idea.  He had been holding himself over with the thought of parole, but now that dream had been crushed.  When he thought about getting out, he was starting to find more and more reasons to say ‘let’s do it’.  But the reasonable part of his mind still ran over and over the reasons to stay.

Time eventually ran up, and Melissa got up to fetch their coats.  Stiles pulled Scott to the side.

“Look buddy, I need you to do a favor for me.” Stiles said, fidgeting with his hands, bouncing on his toes.  This topic was enough to pull back the nervous tension.

“Sure, anything,” Scott said, eyes wide and honest, as helpful as ever.

“I need you to talk to Derek for me,” Stiles said, and Scott still didn’t comprehend.

“About what?” He asked, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Oh, about stock options in the current economy.  What do you think, stupid?” Stiles replied, “I want you to...you know…I want you to tell him to move on.”

“Wait, you want me to break up with Derek for you?” Scott asked, shocked, and Stiles nodded.

“Yeah, I…yeah,” He ran his hand through his hair, excess energy pooling in his fingers, “This isn’t really fair to him, you know?  I mean, when I thought I would get out in a year I was okay with being selfish and trying to keep things going.  But this isn’t going to work now and I can’t make him wait, I don’t want to make him wait, and he really deserves to be able to-”

“He would wait, you know that, right?” Scott interjects, “The guy is head over heels for you.  You don’t see the look on his face when he reads your letters, seriously, it’s gross.”

“Yeah, I know he would wait, that’s why I want you to tell him not to,” He explained, “I’m going to be gone for 4 years.  By the time I get out both of us will be different people and…I don’t know, he might meet someone else.  I don’t want him to not move on with his life because I can’t move on with mine.”

“You really want to break up with Derek?” Scott asked, incredulous.

“Well, no, I don’t _want_ to break up with him-”

“Then you’re doing it again!  You’re being a freaking martyr!” Scott yelled, laughing with disbelief, “You think you know what’s best for everyone, but you don’t!  You can’t just decide this sort of thing for other people!”

“But I can decide for myself!” Stiles angrily retorted, “And I’m deciding I don’t want to constantly feel guilty about Derek sitting alone in his apartment while I’m sitting alone in prison!  So I’m breaking up with him, and you can either explain help me explain it to him or not.”

The stood faced off like that for a moment, and Melissa walked back to find them staring daggers at one another.  Finally Scott deflated.

“Fine, I’ll tell him,” He said, “But I don’t think he’s going to be very happy about it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not too thrilled either.”

 

* * *

 

_Stiles,_

_Scott told me everything.  You can take your self-deprecating bullshit and shove it.  I told you I would wait, and I’m going to wait._

_Derek_

_Stiles,_

_Seriously?  You’re just not going to return my letters?  What are you, five years old?  I’m serious Stiles, I’m not letting go of you.  It took us too long to figure this out for us to just forget about it.  You’re going to get out one day, and when you do I’m going to be there waiting for you._

_Derek_

_PS Erica says you’re being a dick. I’m somewhat inclined to agree with her right now._

_You are unbelievable.  I had to find out from Scott’s mom that you were transferred two weeks ago.  You could have at least had the decency to tell me.  Regardless of your idiotic decisions about our relationship, you’re still a part of the pack.  Or have you forgotten that?  There are people here who care about you, and you’re being ridiculous by shutting all of us out.  We’re not going to forget you, so stop trying to push us away._

_Grow the hell up._

_Stiles,_

_I’m sorry about the last letter.  I’m sorry about the last few letters.  I’m just upset and I’m frustrated about all of this.  I know you are as well, probably more than me.  But I just don’t want to lose you.  You were the first person that I let myself really care about in a long time.  Even before you told me how you felt, I knew that I cared about you more than any of the others.  And that scared the hell out of me.  It still scares me sometimes, how much I care about you._

_I need you to understand, Stiles.  I need you to realize that this isn’t just some fling for me.  I had given up on finding anyone who could really understand about what I was, much less look past that and get to know who I was.  But you did all that, you saw me for who I was and you still liked me.  God, I was so smitten with you it was disgusting.  I never thought I could trust anyone, and suddenly you were there and I wanted to let you in, to let you know me.  It was so strange and terrifying._

_I think the only reason I can tell you this is because I’m writing it, I’d never be able to say this to your face.  You’d just get that dumb grin of yours and I’d feel too stupid to keep talking.  But really Stiles, I care about you so much, you have no idea.  So please stop all this nonsense and just write back and tell me how much of an idiot I am._

_Derek_

_Stiles,_

_Your Dad told me that you stopped reading my letters weeks ago.  I’m choosing not to believe him.  I know you better than that.  I can imagine what you would be doing._

_In the beginning you wouldn’t want to read it, and you would put the letter on your desk under a book and try to forget about it.  But every time you walked past it you would think about it, and then you would end up pacing in front on the desk, hands running through your hair, trying to decide what to do.  God, I can_ see _you Stiles, how you would be biting your bottom lip in concentration, mumbling to yourself about your options.  Eventually you would just push the books out of the way, not caring where they went, and rip open the letter._

_At least, I hope that’s what you do.  I haven’t heard from you in two months, maybe you’ve changed.  I don’t think you could change that much even if you tried, though._

_Please, Stiles, please answer me._

_Derek_

_Stiles,_

_Once when I was younger, my parents took me and my siblings to a park out in the Rockies.  It was fantastically beautiful, the mountains were amazing, the forest was full of new trees and animals and scents.  Laura and I snuck out one night and just lay in a clearing and stared at the stars.  There were so many, more than either of us had ever seen before at once.  You could make out the Milky Way across the sky, and I suddenly felt very small.  I had never felt a sense of awe like that before, the idea that the universe was so vast and unknowable and magnificent filled my mind until nothing else remained._

_Do you remember when we fought the Wendigo?  Boyd, Isaac, Jackson and I had chased the thing out of the town, and Erica and Scott were waiting with you and Allison to kill it.  Only when we met up with them they said it had never showed, and you and Allison weren’t there.  I came up with every worst case scenario right then and there.  I was scared out of my mind.  When we finally found the two of you in the warehouse nearby, having foreseen the Wendigo’s plan and killed it, I thought I wanted to pummel you to death._

_But then I saw you.  You were smiling, laughing with Allison about having just cheated death, the euphoria of survival hadn’t faded yet.  You were walking so confidently, so sure of yourself, covered in scrapes and blood, both yours and the monster’s.  That stupid lacrosse stick spear was resting across your shoulders, your hands hanging onto it loosely.  You seemed to glow, like your whole spirit was on fire and it was spilling out of you from your smile and your eyes and your steps._

_Looking at you then, you filled my mind the same way all those stars had.  That same sense of awe and admiration washed over me.  I realized that you were just as vastly deep and magnificent as the universe.  No matter how much I tried to understand you, I would never be able to figure out where all of your courage and your intelligence and your unfathomable strength came from.  I could only stare at you as you explained what had happened, I never really heard the words you said.  I was just so wrapped up in you, in trying to wrap my mind around what you meant to me._

_I guess just wanted to let you know that.  That you’re my universe now._

_Derek_

* * *

“Another letter?” The wrinkled woman in the corner asked, and Stiles nodded, wiping the tears out of his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Yeah…yeah, another one,” he replied, carefully folding the paper and tucking it back into the envelope ever so gently.

“Not getting any easier to read them, hmm?” She asked, and he shook his head no, tucking the letter in with all the others.  They were carefully stacked on his desk, the edges crisp from constant rereading and refolding.  “You really should just write back to him, you know,” She insisted, attempting to impart some of her ‘old lady wisdom’ and Stiles had started calling it.  Only in his mind though.  Jolene might be old, but she was not an old lady to be messed with.

He didn’t have a good reply to her point, so he brought up another, “How long is this thing supposed to hurt?” He asked, fingers absentmindedly running over the bandage on his wrist.

“It will hurt for much longer if you don’t stop futzing with it,” She scolded him, and he quickly removed his hand and tucked into his pocket. He gave her a sheepish grin, and she returned it, “It won’t hurt much longer, once the initial sting fades off it’ll just be a dull pain for a bit.  Then you won’t feel it at all.”

“I guess I just figured I’d have done a little more research into healing time and general upkeep before I got my first tattoo,” Stiles admitted, and Jolene scoffed.

“Is my word not good enough for you?” She jested, and Stiles laughed.

“No, no, you’re words just fine.  You’d be the expert, what with all the ink you’re sporting.” He motioned to her arms, covered in black symbols, mysterious designs, words in a strange language Stiles couldn’t read.  Well, couldn’t read _yet_.  They flexed and moved at the knitting needles in Jolene’s hands danced in small precise motions.  They never stopped as she spoke.

“I have had my share or time under the needle,” She confessed with a nod and a chuckle.

“What do they all do?” Stiles asked, taking a seat next to her.

“Oh, all sorts of things.  Some are for protection, like yours.  Some are for a more offensive approach.” She told him, and his eyes widened.

“Offensive?  Like what?”

“Oh, well that one near my elbow lets me shoot lighting out of my fingertips.” She said with a teasing smile, and Stiles laughed.

“I guess I won’t be allowed to get that one for a while.  Maybe we can start with how to use the one I do have?” He asked, and she nodded.  He looked down to his wrist where the bandage still covered the five spires of the Ha Yod, the yantra design now permanently set into his skin.

“Well, we’ll have to wait until the ink settles before you try anything with it.” She said, amused at his eagerness, “But I guess I could explain how it all works.  After all, what’s the fun of having magic if you can’t use it?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, did I ever mention that I know absolutely nothing about the criminal justice system, especially in it's relation to juveniles? Seriously, I am making all of this up. Every little bit. I don't know anything about Yantra tattooing either. Or mythical creatures. I get literally all my facts from Wikipedia. I am a horrible researcher. If there are any seriously glaring issues, please feel free to correct me.
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated! I always try to reply to everyone, cause you're all just so gosh darn nice!   
> Or chat with me on tumblr -> beingfrozen.tumblr.com


	5. The Count of Beacon Hills

“You’re sure this isn’t going to, like, kill me right?  Cause this isn’t really how I had imagined going out.  I thought there would be more, like, motorcycle backflips and pyrotechnics”

Jolene tapped impatiently on the arm of her chair. “It won’t kill you Stiles, the spell is meant to protect you.”

“But what if it backfires and does the opposite?” Stiles rubbed his palms against his pants, willing them to stop sweating, “What if I spontaneously combust or all my limbs fall off or something?”

“I thought you said you wanted pyrotechnics?” She teased, and Stiles rolled his eyes and glared at her.  “If the spell doesn’t work, it won’t hurt you.” Jolene explained gently, “Spells take energy, your own energy and your own will.  Unless you _want_ your arms to fall off, they won’t.  The spell will do what you want it do to, and is guided into physical form by the tattoo.”

“So what if the tattoo is wrong?” He tried to keep the fear out of his voice, without success, “What if the design was messed up or I’ve been poking it too much and I smudged the ink? Is that even possible?  Did I magic smudge the tattoo?”

“Stiles, the tattoo is fine,” She folded her hands in her lap, the perfect picture of serenity.  Her frizzled grey hair was tucked back in a neat bun, but a few wisps of hair gathered around her face.  The lines around her eyes were soft, but her laugh lines were much deeper.  She was a woman that had aged well.  “The absolute worst that could happen is that you don’t have enough energy to perform the spell.  In that case, your body would simply collapse-”

“You mean I’d die?!”

“-from exhaustion.  You’d only faint.  You would wake up in an hour or two.”  Stiles was pacing across the room, his nervous energy making him wring his hands and keep his body moving.  He thought he was going to burst.

“If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to try,” Jolene suggested, and that was enough to snap Stiles back to reality.

“No, I have to do this.” He stopped his pacing and took a deep breath, turning back to her, “I mean, I got a freaking tattoo, I can’t back out now.  I need to do this.  I _want_ to do this.”

Jolene nodded. “Alright then.  Do you remember everything I told you?  You need to focus-”

“Focus on what I want to happen, on the spell and its desired effects. Then touch the tattoo and pull the magic out.”

“That’s a somewhat simplified version, but you seem to have the idea,” Jolene gave him a small, reassuring smile, “Give it a try.  If it doesn’t work right away, don’t worry.  It can take a bit to get the hang of it.”

Stiles took in a deep, lungful of air and let it out slowly, closing his eyes.  The magic was supposedly simple.  He didn’t need any sort of magical phrase or a rain dance; just a thought and a tattoo.  The magic was inside of him, and he only needed to focus and concentrate it into the form that he wanted.  The tattoo was the release valve, what allowed the focused power to be manifested in the physical world.  Each tattoo was different and worked with its own type of spell, helping to focus the energy into the desired form. Jolene had elegantly put it that ‘you can’t make a flamethrower out of a fire extinguisher.’  One tattoo could not perform the same magic as another.

The tattoos were why he had never been able to use his magic before; he simply hadn’t had a way to release it.  Also, he hadn’t really been aware that he _possessed_ any magic, but that was a minor point.  He let him mind clear, not an easy task for Stiles, and tried to focus on what he wanted.  He visualized the spells he had seen on television shows and movies, the bright veil of light that could protect the caster from harm.  He imagined bullets bouncing off of it, other spells being deflected, alpha werewolves throwing themselves at his shield only to be stopped midair and repelled.

He let the images fill his mind, consume his thoughts, focused on them like he had never focused on anything ever before.  And when the images seemed burned into the back of his eyelids, he slowly lifted his hand, resting two fingers on his left wrist where the yantra tattoo sat, unassuming.  He let his thoughts fester for another moment, and then swung his hand away from his wrist, throwing it out into the air in front of him, willing his shield to be pulled from his soul and protect him from harm.  His eyes flew open as his hand reached the pinnacle of its swing, straight out in front of him, hand bent upwards, two fingers pointing at the ceiling, and he assessed his work.

Nothing had happened.

There was no shining light in front of him, no protective barrier between him and Jolene.  He held still, trying to will the shield into existence with the force of his mind and the concentration of his glare.

“Did it work?” He asked, still frozen in place.  He thought that maybe it was invisible, or maybe there was a delay.  But in response, Jolene reached down into her bag, picked up a ball of yarn, and threw it at him.  It flew past his outstretched hand and hit him square in the shoulder.  He looked at the spot where it had hit him, and then back to Jolene in shock.  She raised her eyebrow at him.

“Nope, didn’t work,” She smiled mockingly, and he dropped his hand and sighed in exasperation.  His hand came back up to rub at the spot the yarn had landed, even though it didn’t hurt at all. “I told you it would be difficult.”

“What did I do wrong?” he asked, honestly curious.  He wanted to learn, he wasn’t going to get upset over the first misstep.  But if he was going to learn he needed to see his mistakes.

“What were you thinking about?” She pulled herself up from her chair and made her way over to the yarn on the ground.  Stiles thought about his answer, shifting his weight back and forth from foot to foot.

“What you told me the spell would do.  You said it made a protective shield, so I was thinking of …you know in Harry Potter there’s that spell that keeps away Dementors?  That’s kind of what I was imagining.  This…shimmery kind of shield made of light and power.  Stuff bouncing off of it, repelling people, that sort of thing.”

“First off, if you thought this was going to be the wizarding world, you’re sorely mistake.  Expecto patromun won’t work here.” She bent down to pick up the yarn, hand on her knee to steady herself.  Stiles walked over and took her hand, helping her to stand up. “Secondly, perhaps I wasn’t entirely clear when I told you to think of what you want the spell to do.  It needs to be personal, to have emotion behind it.  You need to think about how the spell affects you and how you affect the spell.  It’s coming from your soul, after all.” She pressed the ball of yarn into his hand, and he took it wordlessly as she went to sit down again.  It was soft and pliant in his hand.

“Personal,” he whispered to himself, “I can do personal.”

He tossed the yarn back to Jolene, who caught it deftly.  Stiles closed his eyes again, and let other images fill his mind.  He thought of all the times when he could have protected someone, but couldn’t.  He thought of Scott during the full moon those first few months when he couldn’t control his shift; of the alpha in the school that night that seemed so long ago, prowling the halls as he and his friends feared for their lives; of the kanima as it had paralyzed and killed people, hurt his father; of Derek lying broken and beaten on the ground, bleeding onto concrete…and he imagined himself protecting them.

He imagined his friends behind him, of his shield standing as a wall between himself and the faceless enemy.  He wasn’t just another human anymore, he was _more_. He could defend and protect his pack from anyone that tried to hurt them.  That emotion, of being the protector, of the satisfaction of guarding the people he loved, he let that fill him.  And this time he felt his fingertips tingle, could feel those images filling him with power.  The tattoo on his wrist felt warm, and he slowly reached to touch it again.  When his two fingers found the ink, it sent a jolt through his arm.

He continued to focus on those emotions of protectiveness, and pulled his fingers from his wrist.  He left the warmth go with them, and it felt like something he knew and understood, but he couldn’t quite recall what kind of warmth it was.  As he pushed his hand out in front of himself, he opened his eyes to see the shield, a shimmer of dim light distorting his view of Jolene.  He felt the satisfaction rise in his chest for just a moment, but then the shield wavered and disappeared.

He looked at the air where it had been, confused but hopeful.

“Uhhh…did I-” but he was cut off by the ball of yarn, this time bouncing harmlessly off his face.

“Close, but no cigar.  My aim’s getting better, though.” She chuckled and Stiles glared at her.

“Oh, ha ha, lets all pick on the newbie.  Seriously, what did I do wrong this time? It was working, I put emotion behind it, I saw the shield, I just….holy crap.”

“What is it?” Jolene asked, sensing his shift and thinking it meant something was wrong.  But Stiles just let out a breathy laugh and smiled so wide he could feel his dry lips cracking.

“It worked!  I just did fucking _magic_!  Like, I actually just made a mystical shield appear out of thin air!  Holy shit!”

“Yes, Stiles,” Jolene leaned back, sinking into the chair once again, fears alleviated, “You just performed a low level magical spell.  Poorly, I might add, but you did it.”

“I’m a magician! Or a witch? Warlock?  I don’t even know the term but I couldn’t care less right now because _I can do magic_!” Stiles did a little jig in place, laughter coming deep from his chest.  He had forgotten how good it felt to really laugh.

“Most prefer the term practitioner,” Jolene informed him, “but feel free to call yourself whatever you wish.”

“A practitioner,” Stiles said in breathless wonder, and then laughed again.  This was the first time in the nearly year and half of his imprisonment that he felt truly happy.  It was like a high, and he didn’t know if it was the magic or just the fact that he finally felt good about something in his life, but he wanted more of it. “Okay, I’m gonna try again.”

Jolene just nodded as Stiles once again focused his mind.  He went over the images in his head again: guarding his friends, protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves.  He felt the same buzz of power, the same warmth that he couldn’t quite place, and the shield appeared for only a moment once again, before fading into the sunlight streaming through the window.  Stiles let out an annoyed huff, and tried again.

And again.

And again.

By the time he decided to take a break Jolene had left.  Stiles had kept it up for another hour, but finally collapsed on his bed, exhausted.  Jolene wasn’t kidding, he thought, when she said that this stuff could make you pass out.  He hadn’t been able to get the spell to actually work, but he still felt like all of the little bursts of energy, where the shield had shown up for mere seconds, had taken a lot out of him. He decided he would turn in for the night, and try again in the morning.

He found Jolene the next day sitting on their usual bench outside in the prison’s small courtyard.  He sat down next to her, legs sprawled out before him.  She was knitting again, and Stiles started to wonder what it was, exactly, that she was making.  He never saw the completed product, and she was always doing something in a different color than the day before.

“Couldn’t get it to work, hmm?” The quiet _click click_ of her needles annoyed him, but he knew it wasn’t actually her fault.  He was just in a mood where anything was annoying. He still wanted her to stop, though.

“Nope, didn’t work.” He crossed his arms, face petulant like a small child, “Sorta worked, but didn’t actually work.”

“It will take time.” She nodded to herself, eyes never straying from the twists and knots of her yarn.

“Yeah, but how much time?” Stiles shifted in his seat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He surveyed the yard, watching the other inmates mingle, “Is it just that I need to build up endurance or something?”

“It’s not about endurance, it’s about the feeling,” she put the needles down, and Stiles tilted his head to look over at her, “Whatever emotion that you’re putting behind the spell isn’t powerful enough to sustain it.”

“What could be more powerful that the desire to help people?” Stiles leaned back again, throwing his hands out in frustration. “I mean, that was the whole reason I started this in the first place.” Jolene gave him a quizzical look. “What?” he asked, “Did I mess it up somehow?”

“No, no, I think this is my fault,” She put her knitting project into the bag at her side, and then leaned up and gently laid a hand on Stiles arm. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t clear enough.  When I said that the fuel for the spell is personal, I meant _your_ emotions.”

“It _is_ my emotion,” Stiles tried to argue, “It’s a…a _desire_ to help people.”

“But this spell isn’t about desire,” Jolene explained, “It’s about protection.  It’s about feeling safe.  You don’t need to think about what the spell will do, so much as how it will make you feel when it does its job right.”

“So, I need to think of something that makes me feel…safe?” Stiles attempted to understand, and Jolene nodded and patted his arm, then brought her hands back to her own lap.

“The spell is all about protection, and I think it was partially working before because you were at least thinking about how it would feel to protect someone. But that’s not something you’ve been able to do, at least not the extent you’ve wanted too.  The emotion tied to protecting someone else isn’t strong enough for you to use to fuel the spell.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t focus on how it feels to protect others, I should focus on a time that I was protected?”

“More than that.  Think of a time when you felt utterly and completely safe, like nothing in the world could ever touch you, where you were so at ease and unworried, knowing that nothing could have hurt you even if they’d tried.  Focus on how you felt in that moment, the warmth and security of it.  That’s what the spell is about.”

“I haven’t felt completely safe ever since my best friend decided to wolf out on me.” Stiles admitted, “We’ve been running and fighting pretty much nonstop since then.”

“What about before all that?”

“I mean, I guess I felt safe then,” Stiles shrugs, “But there wasn’t ever anything to be afraid of.  I feel like the sense of security you’re talking about has to _mean_ something.  Not just like, I scraped my knee and my dad put a band-aid on it.”

“Was that the first memory that came to mind?”

“Maybe.  But it’s not gonna be strong enough to support a barrier that can stop bullets.”

“You’re right,” She admitted, standing up slowly, pushing herself up using the armrest, “the kind of emotion you need is something far stronger than the average memory contains.  But that’s the thing with people like us,” she dusted off her clothes with a light hand, “Whether we like it or not we’re drawn into serious and dangerous situations.  Our memories are many times darker and bloodier than normal people could ever imagine.  But that means that the good memories shine all the brighter.” And she smiled at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“What memory do you use?” He couldn’t help but pry, but by her thoughtful expression, he didn’t think she minded.

“I haven’t thought about the memory in a long time, just the feeling.  Once you grasp the feeling you don’t really need the memory so much anymore.  But…yes, I remember now.  It was when I was a little girl, and my mother had just made her wonderful chili.” Jolene closed her eyes, and the wind blew her hair gently.  In the span on a few seconds, she suddenly seemed decades younger, the memory filling her from within with a youthful light. “We had just finished eating and moved to the living, and my father had me sitting on his lap, with my mother next to us, and my brother on the floor below playing with a wooden toy train.  My father was reading me a fairytale, I don’t remember which one, but my mother was butting in every time he got to her favorite parts.” She opened her eyes again, and looked to Stiles. “I felt like that moment was perfect.  There in my father’s arms, my mother’s laugh so close, I thought that life would stay that way forever.”

Stiles smiled at her, his biggest most genuine smile. “I thought you said you needed strong memories to make it work.  That seems very calm.”

“It was calm.  The calm before the storm,” Jolene’s serene smile fell and she looked away. Stiles felt a horrible sinking feeling settle into his stomach, and his mouth went dry.

“What happened to them? To your family?”

“They were killed two days later,” Her eyes are far away, looking up at the clouds as the white wisps travel by, “All of them.  Vampire attack.  A practitioner saved me, but it was too late for my parents and brother.  The man saw that I had the spark, and he took me in and taught me how to fight and survive, how to wield the magic within me.  But you’re right, sometimes it’s hard to feel safe after you find out what really lurks in the dark.” She turned back to him, a smile once again on her face, but it wasn’t quite so carefree anymore. “You’ll find your memory, Stiles. Just take some time to think about it.”

Stiles watched as she made her was across the yard, knitting bag in hand.  He sat on the bench for the entire day, thinking and remembering and trying to come up with a time in his life when he felt entirely secure.  He thought back to when his mother was alive, but those memories were so old, and Stiles had been locking them away for so long, that he couldn’t find one that he thought was strong enough.  He thought about the time before Scott had been turned, about their escapades in the woods, playing video games in Scott’s basement, their sleepovers and discussions and inside jokes.  It felt like friendship and brotherhood, but it wasn’t necessarily the epitome of safety.

He sat on that bench until they made him get up, and then he sat on his bed and continued thinking.  He mumbled to himself, trying to connect together memories and come up with ones he hadn’t remembered yet.

He finally gave up, feeling shitty for not remembering a time he felt _safe_.  Since when had his life become such a mess that it was so hard to feel secure?  It was grating on him that being put in prison was starting to come up on his radar of memories in which he felt he wasn’t in any danger.  He fell asleep after tossing and turning for what seemed like hours.

When he finally did sleep, he dreamt of Derek; of large, calloused hands running over his body, of an insistent mouth against his throat, of gripping at bed sheets because _god yes yes please don’t stop right there right there_.  Stiles woke suddenly in a cold sweat, half hard, sheets wrapped around his body uncomfortably. He pulled them off, untangling himself with harsh yanks of fabric that results in him on falling on the floor kicking the bedding away.  He laid on the cold floor for a moment, the chill of the concrete seeping into his skin.

_Hot hands and a hot tongue make their way down his body…_

He stood up quickly and rubbed his hands over his face, wide awake.  He let his feet carry him around the room, sleep addled mind not caring as his body tried to expel energy through motion.

_The motion of his hips is maddeningly steady, and Stiles arches into every movement…_

He shook his head and let out a noise of aggravation.  Might as well try the spell again, he thought harshly.  If anything, it will tire him out enough to get back to sleep.  He widened his stance, took deep breaths and focused.  He tried to remember all of the memories his mind had been running through, trying to pick one that might work.  When his mind couldn’t seem to settle on one he groaned in frustration.

_Derek groans and Stiles smirks through his gasps and pleas.  He pulls on Derek’s hair again, harder this time…_

Stiles let his knees go weak and landed ungracefully back on the floor.  He folded his legs under him to sit cross legged and he stared at the wall, hoping that maybe his gaze was strong enough to chip away at the plaster.  When the wall failed to spontaneously break apart he closed his eyes, let his head fall forward limply.

_His body is spent, limp and pliant, as Derek runs his lips and hands over him absentmindedly, both of them slipping towards sleep…_

Stiles wanted to hit something.  He felt frustrated and horny and that taste of hopelessness was sneaking back into his mind.  He stood up angrily and spread his feet, hands balled in fists as he thought again of protection, of his friends watching as he wards off evil.  But when he imagined his friends that warm feeling returned, budding in his chest and burning at his wrist, and suddenly all he could think of was Derek’s face.  Derek’s face as he looked across the pillow at Stiles, hair sweaty and wild, a small satisfied smile on his face, and his eyes…

And then Stiles had it. He had the memory.  It’s like he can almost feel the sheets of Derek’s bed wrapped around him, wrapped around them both.  Derek’s chest against his back, his arms wrapped around Stiles’ waist, and Stiles can feel the soft pulse of breath against the back of his neck.  The morning sun is making in through the blinds of Derek’s windows, and Stiles squirms around, trying not to wake his bedmate.  When he’s facing Derek he can’t help but bring his hand up to gently trace the contours of the man’s face.  He feels in his fingertips the moment Derek wakes up, but the werewolf just keeps his eyes closed and smiles gently, letting Stiles continue his exploration.  When Stiles gently pushes their lips together its slow and sleepy and wonderful, and when they pull apart he tucks his head under Derek’s chin.  Derek tightens his hold around Stiles, but the fearsome strength he possesses is missing.  Derek is holding Stiles like he is something precious, something to be treasured.  Stiles feels like he wants the moment to never end, because he’s never felt happier than being tangled up in those blankets with Derek.  It’s warm and soft and there are strong arms around him and a tender mouth against his temple.  He’s never felt so loved, so cared for, so…

_…safe._

And suddenly it was like the warmth in his chest exploded, flowing into his arms and legs and fingers.  Stiles gasped with the feeling, that warmth and safety of the memory invading his body and filling his mind with ease and comfort and security.  His hand moved on its own as it makes its way to his wrist, and when his fingers touched the tattoo it’s not the same jolt as last time.  Now the feeling was like those blankets on Derek’s bed, like soft linen running down his arm.  His fingers pressed on the tattoo harder, and the warmth throughout his body seemed to flow toward that point of contact.

Stiles opened his eyes and watched as he pulls his hand away, watched as a bright trail of light follows it.  When he spread his hand out in front of him, arm pressed outward, the light flared out like an umbrella opening.  It’s golden and shimmering and when Stiles looks at it all those feelings of safety and warmth flood through him again.  It floats serenely in front of him and stands strong, not wavering or flickering in the slightest.  It’s a few inches taller than him, as wide as it is high.  Stiles smiled and moved his arm to the right, and the shield followed it.  He reached out with his other hand and lets his fingers glide against the light, gentle probing revealing that it was indeed solid.

Stiles dropped both his hands, and the ward hung in the air for a moment before slowly fading.  The cell goes dark, and Stiles found himself blind in the sudden blackness.  He made his way slowly to the bed, feeling in the air with his hands, feet sliding across the concrete.  When he found it he toppled onto the mattress with a thump, and let out a breathy laugh.  Sleep found its way to him easily then.

The next morning he found Jolene on their bench outside. Taking his seat next to her, the clicking of her knitting needles rattled him much less than the day before.

“You got the spell to work last night,” It was a statement, not a question.

“How could you possibly know that?” He asked, only mildly serious.

“That stupid grin has been plastered on your face since I first saw you this morning.” Her words only made his smile grow wider.

“Can you blame me, though?”

“Not really,” she hadn’t looked away from her knitting, but she had a small smile on her face, “You caught on quicker than I thought you would.”

Stiles held a hand to his heart in fake offense, “Oh ye of little faith!” He gasped, and Jolene snorted a short laugh.

“Don’t get too full of yourself, mister.  You still have a lot left to learn.”

“Yeah, about that…” Stiles ran his eyes over her covered arms, thinking of the tattoos beneath her sleeves, “Were you joking about that lightning thing?  Or can you actually, you know…shoot electricity from your hands?”

“I don’t know if you’re quite ready for that one yet,” she saids. Stiles realized that she hadn’t actually said ‘no’.

“I don’t know,” he put on his thinking face, tilted his head back and forth, “Some people have said that I’m a quick learner.”

Stiles won’t admit how much it hurt when she batted him upside the head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let everyone know, my friend is watching 'Hotel California' right now, and when I texted her asking what part she was at, she replied 'Scott is about to set his gasoline soaked fine booty on fire'. I realize that this chapter doesn't compare to that kind of stellar writing, but I hope I didn't let you down.
> 
> A few points: A) I don't know how Jolene got knitting needles in jail. You can have them on a plane, so maybe she just convinced someone they were safe. Also, she has freaking magic so shut up. B) This is the first remotely smutty thing I've ever written. I just...I tried my best. C) My birthday is next Wednesday. I would like comments as presents. Or art. Or just warm thoughts and internet hugs from internet friends.


	6. Prison on Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to respond to each comment, but I just wanted to take a second to seriously thank everyone who's read/commented/left kudos on the work so far. You guys are all fantastically awesome, and I'm really glad that you're enjoying the story so far. I'm trying to do right by you guys, and you've pointed out some of my hiccups here and there. Hopefully I've fixed what I can and freshened up what I could, thanks for sticking with me!

_Welcome to the Evening News at 9, I’m Richard Evans.  Tonight: the economic upswing of the western US, where it came from and why it’s happening, and later an Easter public service announcement, how to know whether candy is safe for your kids._

_But first, some local news about the tragedy at the Santa Charlotta Low Security Prison.  Yesterday at approximately 10pm local time a fire started in the prison due to an electrical surge igniting some mis-mounted insulation.  The resulting fire spread quickly throughout the facility when the sprinklers failed to start, setting the second and third prisoner wards ablaze before emergency services arrived at the scene.  Emergency protocol in the prison was immediately put into action when the fire began, evacuating prison personnel and inmates, but the force of the flames trapped a number of prisoners within their rooms._

_When firefighters arrived they were miraculously able to save nearly every one of the trapped prisoners due to the brave actions of two individuals.  According to witnesses who had been trapped inside, two people attempted to fight the flames and pull those who were trapped to safety.  Those who were rescued were deposited in a safe area that managed to escape the flames, and were quickly collected by the arriving firefighters._

_The first hero was identified as Jolene McCarthy, a 72 year old woman who worked in the prison administrative ward.  Authorities are still not sure why she was in the prison past her usual working hours, or how she gained access to the prisoner barracks.  However, numerous prisoners who were saved stated that, without her, they surely would have perished in the flames._

_The second individual was a young man named…uh…how do you…with the last name Stilinski, who was, surprisingly, a inmate.  He was serving time for manslaughter as well as arson.  Based on that arson charge, firefighters believe he had prior knowledge which allowed him to choose the safe area that the flames couldn’t reach as quickly, thus saving numerous lives._

_Both individuals, despite their noble efforts, perished in the fire.  Their bodies were found after the flames were put out, and identified via dental records.  Because of their actions, no other casualties were reported. McCarthy had no family on record, and Stilinski’s father, the Sheriff of the town of Beacon Hills, California, has not yet been reached for comment.  The source of the power surge which started the fire, as well as the building’s failure to meet insulation and fire safety standards, is under investigation._

_Moving on to the recent weath-_

The news was cut off as Derek’s fist broke through the screen of the television.

 

The funeral was a short, closed casket affair.  None of the wolves could stand to be near the coffin for too long.  They could smell the burnt body inside.  Scott left to throw up soon after he arrived, returning a few moments later, face pale. 

“It doesn’t even smell like Stiles anymore,” the pack heard him whisper.

 

Derek disappeared for a few months.  He wasn’t far; the pack could still feel their alpha nearby.  They knew they could find him if they needed to, knew he would let them.  But they didn’t go looking.  He returned at the end of the summer.  None of the pack asked about his absence.

 

Lydia and Jackson left.  College in the northwest.  No one was surprised.

 

Scott’s an hour away at a state school.  Allison’s a bit farther at a private liberal arts university.  They both came home every weekend, like clockwork.

 

Erica and Boyd got married.  They didn’t tell anyone, just did it at the courthouse one afternoon, Isaac as their witness.  Derek’s the last to know.  He’s quiet for a day or two, but eventually handed Erica an envelope.  ‘Happy Honeymoon’ was written on the front, and inside were two tickets to a ski resort up north.

 

Christmas rolled around.  The pack spent it at Scott’s house, cooking for his mom while she was at work. They talked and laughed in the kitchen, and Derek listened from the couch.  Lydia and Jackson came home for the break and have joined them.  It was awkward at first, but now it’s as if nothing’s changed since their high school days.  Derek was surprised to find he felt content; his pack was together, and everyone was safe, they were happy.  He let his mind shut down there, doesn’t want to look too deeply into those feelings.  He knew he would come out the other end with memories and guilt and loss.  Better to take things at face value.

The Sheriff pulled in a few minutes after Scott’s mom did.  He joined Derek in the living room, handed him a beer, and neither of them spoke to the other.  They just sit and listen to the sounds of pack and home and family.

After 4 beers Derek’s not even feeling buzzed, but he could tell that the Sheriff was.  Melissa called that dinner was ready, and Derek reached over and puleds the bottle from the man’s hand, and the Sheriff finally turned to him.

“He read your letters, you know,” his speech was slightly slurred, eyes focused on nothing in particular.  Derek put the empty glass on the coffee table carefully, mechanically, “He told me to say that he didn’t, but he read all of them.”

Derek remained silent.  After a moment he stood up, motions stiff, and walked out the front door.  They heard his beer bottle smash on the asphalt outside.  He didn’t return.  Dinner was quiet after that.

 

The monsters still trickled in.  But the pack was established.  They were strong, knowledgeable, and capable.  Nothing gave them much trouble, except for a pair of sprites during the winter.  Isaac nearly lost an arm.  But they pulled themselves back together, as always.

 

One day in April Lydia called Allison in tears.  Said she got a letter in the mail but Allison couldn’t make out any more of her words through the sobs.  When she finally got her to calm down, the only thing she could catch was Lydia crying _it’s from him it’s from him_.  Allison told Lydia to get on skype, hung up, and began to text Derek.  Her fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, hesitant, before deleting the message.  No need to cause more pain than necessary with false hope.

 

When Lydia got done showing her the letter, telling her what it says, showing her the code it was written in and the real message behind the words, Allison called Derek immediately.  He picked up on the second ring with a brisk hello.  Allison cut to the chase.

“Stiles might still be alive.”

Derek hung up.

 

He showed up at her apartment 20 minutes later.  Allison had already called the other pack members, was on the phone with Isaac right then, the others already on their way.  Derek walked in just as Allison hung up.  His eyes were angry, and his hand flew out with superhuman speed to grasp her neck, palm against her pulse.  His grip was tight but not crushing, and she could feel his claws but they didn’t pierce her skin.  She stayed calm and collected; she’d have be lying if she said she wasn’t expecting this reaction.  She wasn’t afraid.  She knew he just wanted to be sure.

“Say. It. Again.” he growled.

“Lydia got a letter, and she thinks it’s from Stiles.  He might be alive.”

When her heartbeat didn’t stutter, when her pulse didn’t race, when Derek knew she was telling the truth he dropped his hand and the anger bled out of his eyes.  Allison caught a brief glimpse of the pain there, the misery he’d been hiding away for so long.  And it was laced with the faintest glimmer of hope.

When Scott walked in that look was gone, replaced with grim determination as Derek spoke to Lydia on the computer, going over the contents of the letter.

 

_Ms. Martin_

_We regret to inform you that you are currently in violation of a number of our university dorm’s safety standards.  Please visit the website listed on the header of this letter to see a full explanation of each violation below._

_Violation number 73-19-1-10_

_Violation number 366-1-10-3_

_Violation number 46-8-21-4_

_Violation number 287-6-46-6_

_Violation number 73-9-1-5_

_Violation descriptions can also be found in print in our University Dorm Handbook, for the most current version use ISBN 0801950775.  Please speak with your RA about these violations, and they will inform you of the proper procedure to move forward._

_Sincerely,_

_The University Housing Council_

 

“I don’t get it,” Scott said, “How does that even remotely relate to Stiles?”

“It doesn’t,” Lydia said, “But when I brought it to my RA she said that it wasn’t standard procedure and probably wasn’t actually from housing.  She figured someone had tried to prank me.”

“How do you know it wasn’t a prank?” Scott crossed his arms indignantly.

“I looked up the website to try and find the violations before I spoke to my RA, and they didn’t have them listed anywhere.  So I got the Housing Handbook they gave us during orientation, but that didn’t have them either.  After talking to my RA I was going to put the handbook away when I saw that the ISBN numbers didn’t match.”

“Maybe you had the wrong version?” Isaac suggested, but Lydia shook her head.

“I checked again and realized that the number on the letter was for a completely different publisher.  I looked it up and…the ISBN number was for Dune.”

“Dune? The sci-fi novel?” Scott’s eyes widened, and he looked around at his friends frantically, “Stiles loved that book, he read it, like, five thousand times.  He had a copy in his room.”

 “So the violation numbers are codes that relate to parts of the book?” Boyd asked insightfully, and Lydia grinned and nodded. 

“The first part of the number is the page, and the second is number of the paragraph, starting with the first indented paragraph.  The third number is the starting word, and the fourth number is the total number of letters to read.  Overall it’s a pretty simple code, but you have to have the right book to make it work.”

“So we go and get Stiles’ book and we can figure out what the message is!” Scott declared triumphant.  Allison laid a hand on his arm.

“We already know what the message is,” she said, and motioned to the screen with a tilt of her head.

“He let me borrow it before he went to prison,” Lydia reached out of frame or her webcam, and her hand came back holding a thick book with a tattered cover, “I never got a chance to give it back.  The ISBN was a match for this version.  I think that’s why he sent me the letter.” She flipped open the book to a page marked with a yellow sticky note.  “Take a look.”  She turned the book towards them, and on page 73 there was a phrase circled with blue pen.

_Send word to_

“So the first part of the message is ‘Send word to’?” Scott confirmed, and Lydia nodded, dropping the book down out of the screen. “What’s the rest?”

Lydia paused, looking at Derek with sad eyes.  “The whole message was ‘Send word to the pack that I’m sorry’.”

 

The letter had nothing in it to help them find Stiles, if he was even alive.  So they fell back into their normal routines.  They all checked the mail on a more regular basis though.

 

Another pack came through Beacon Hills.  They were nomads, wolves with no territory who moved across the country, staying together and out of the sights of hunters.  They paid Derek and the others the proper respects, and give a warning when they left.  Someone’s been hunting down other packs, and not the usual suspects: it’s someone worse.  Someone who’s not just killing.  It’s someone who’s decimating, someone who’s got a sick fascination with killing werewolves in all sorts of twisted ways.

 

In June, after Lydia and Jackson return home, the Sheriff called the pack telling them there’d been an emergency, and they immediately made their way to his house on high alert.  When they all arrived the Sheriff just handed Derek a piece of paper.  He reached for it, confused, but when the scent of it hit him he took it with a careful hand.

“Came in the mail this morning,” the sheriff explained as Derek stared at the letter with wide eyes.

On it was messy script in red ink, and the writing looked like it was done with a calligraphy pen: broad lines fading into thin curves, a splashing of red where the pen had dripped.  The font isn’t delicate or fanciful, but it is familiar.  Erica stood next to Derek and inhaled.

“It smells like him,” she whispered, looking up to Derek for confirmation.

“It’s his blood,” Derek whispered, and the tension in the room could suddenly be sliced thin.  The pack traded looks of concern, and a few anxious glances were thrown at Derek, who hadn’t looked up from the page.

“What do we do?” asked Isaac, and Derek put the letter down on the table for everyone to see.

“We do what it says,” he told them, and they crowded in to read the words. There’s no trick this time, no message concealed behind a code.  There’s just the blood red warning scrawled on the paper.

 

_Don’t trust Jolene_

_-S_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woop woop changing up the game. We've moved from Stiles being whiny in prison to the pack being whiny out of prison. But where's Stiles? What up with Jolene? How did the fire really start? How many licks does it really take to get the center of the tootsie pop? Purdue University calculated with their 20 person test group that it takes 252 licks on average. As for the rest, you'll find out eventually.
> 
> Another fun fact, if you have the red hardcover book club edition of Dune, that code will actually work. 
> 
> Final fun fact: I've got a new fic I just put out. If you're not put off by this blatant self promotion, take a gander-> http://archiveofourown.org/works/886180
> 
> Remember how a few chapters ago I said I was in denial about all the sadness happening in season 3? Just a reminder that I AM IN COMPLETE AND UTTER DENIAL ABOUT ALL THE SADNESS IN SEASON 3.


	7. The Great Escape

"Oh my god, oh my god, what do I do?!"

"Calm down Stiles-"

"Calm down?  I set the building on _fire_!"

"Stiles-"

"Why did you let me try the lightning thing? I told you not to let me try the lightning thing!"

"Stiles, we need to get out of here."

"Aww man, the bed's on fire!"

"Stiles, come on!"

"I did not meant to do this-"

"STILES!"

"Okay, okay, we just need to stay calm and get everyone else out and-JESUS OW that fire alarm is loud."

"The sprinklers aren't coming on."

"What?"

"The sprinklers should come on when the fire alarm goes off.  I think you short circuited the sprinkler system."

"WHAT?!"

"We need to get out of here."

"What about all the other people?!"

"There's no time, Stiles, we need to go."

"I'm not leaving them here to burn to death!"

"If we don't leave now _we'll_ burn to death."

"But this is my fault, I'm not leaving them!"

"We need to go!"

"Fine, you go, but I'm staying to get people out."

"Stiles-"

"Either you help me or you don't, Jolene!"

"...I'll put up a permanent elemental ward by the south wall.  Get the prisoners over there."

"Roger that."

Starting the fire had been a complete accident on Stiles part.  The thing about throwing lightning bolts was that they eventually hit something.  And Stiles' aim wasn't that great.  One misplaced lob towards a lighting fixture and suddenly the whole facility was up in flames.  Stiles was pretty sure that at the time that the entire escapade was one big chain reaction of worst case scenarios and bad luck.  The only good thing that came out of it was that no one got hurt.  That, and the fact that they had escaped from prison.

It wasn't supposed to be an escape strategy, but in the heat of the moment Stiles had found himself running out of the building with Jolene. The other prisoners were safe, the fire was contained thanks to a little magic, and Jolene was ushering Stiles through doors and back hallways.  He didn't quite understand what was even happening at first, just listening to her shout directions authoritatively made him feel like she was making sense of all the chaos.  By the time they were running through non-inmate access areas, Stiles had only just figured out what her plan was.  Eventually they got out of the flames and to the administrative wards, where Jolene supplied a change of clothes for both of them.  It all seemed very planned to Stiles, the paths they had taken, the clothes in his size, but he didn't say anything as they rushed out of the building.

Stiles pulled the hood up on the coat Jolene had supplied.  It was black, non-descript, and Stiles could feel the buzz of magic on it.  When he let the feeling into his mind it brought up a memory of Lydia.  It was a memory from long before all the supernatural madness of the last few years.  Lydia didn't even know who he was back then.  And when the words of confession fell from his lips in the hallway she had walked right by, never even hearing his words or seeing his figure.  He was invisible to her.

A cloaking spell, he thought.  They'll see me, but they won't notice me.  Clever.  But once again the warning bells went off in his head.  Clothes stashed away for a possible escape is one thing, having them pre-enchanted is another.  As he looked around for Jolene he found that he couldn't locate her in the crowd.  An hand suddenly grabbed his upper arm and he turned to find his mentor in a similar coat.  She gave him a small smile and led him to a car parked in the back of the lot, away from the people watching the burning building and the arriving emergency vehicles.

She pulled out, driving slowly and carefully. Amidst the chaos they slipped out onto the road and made their way onto the interstate.  The sights of the open road and the feeling of the moving vehicle were strange to Stiles for a moment, but he quickly shrugged off the feeling.  He had more important things to think about.

The route had been planned and the clothes had been stashed. Jolene had been at least thinking about breaking him out.

But one is just an event.

Then again, the clothes had been enchanted to allow the wearer to move amidst a large crowd and remain unnoticed.  Like Jolene knew they would be audience they would need to avoid.

Okay, but two is coincidence.

The last point hit Stiles suddenly, even though it had been lurking in the back of his mind since the fire.  Stiles may only have a high school education, but he isn't an idiot.  Even if he was, he's more than capable of telling when someone's lying.  He's such a master at the art of falsehood that it's easy to spot when someone's trying to dupe him, even in a panicked situation.  And Jolene's lie wasn't even a good one.

Sprinkler systems can't be short circuited.  Heck, they don’t even run off electricity.

And three?  Three is a pattern.

Stiles turned to watch Jolene as she drove.  Her eyes were on the road, the edges of her mouth betraying a small smile.  If three was a pattern, that would mean that Jolene had somehow rigged the electrical and sprinkler system and allowed the prison to burn.  She hadn't wanted to save anyone, only to get Stiles out.  If he was right, Stiles was pretty sure that this had been one great Escape from Alcatraz level plan, the only hiccup was his desire to save people's lives.  Looking at Jolene, he knew the powerful practitioner who hid underneath her elderly frame, and it frightened him to think she would be capable of condemning so many people to die for the sake of saving him. A terrible realization hit him, like a punch to the chest.

Was he being rescued, or kidnapped?

 

They drove for a few hours, and Stiles wasn't terrified enough to stay awake.  The magic he used protecting people from the flames had tired him out, and the roll of the car lulled him to sleep. He reasoned that if Jolene wanted to hurt him she could have done it already.  But really, he just wanted to rest.

He awoke to the car engine stopping, keys jingling quietly as Jolene pulled them from the ignition.  His face was pressed against the passenger side window, and his eyes fluttered open and his sleep dazed mind took in his surroundings. It was still dark out, the clock on the dashboard read 3:00 AM.  They were parked in front of a single story building with red doors.  A motel, Stiles' sluggish brain supplies, and the red neon sign nearby confirmed it.

"You can stay here until I grab a room," Jolene said quietly, patting Stiles on the leg.  She slid out of the car, and closed to door quietly.  Stiles watched as she headed across the parking lot to the door labeled 'Office'.  Surely, if she was kidnapping him, she wouldn't leave him in the car alone right after getting out of the prison?  He could get up an run into the street right now, find a phone and call his dad.

At the thought of his father his mind wandered.  What would he think had happened?  What would the pack think?  How would Derek react?  The prison would obviously be able to tell that he was missing.  There might even be a state-wide manhunt going on right now.  That would explain why Jolene wanted him to stay in the car.

But when she returned it was with a casual walk and not a worry in the world.  She rapped on his window and he picked up his head before she opened the door.  He stumbled out while she pulled a duffel bag from the back seat, and slowly meandered after her towards door number 7.

"If anyone asks," she said to him, unlocking the door, "you're my grandson and we're driving you home from college."

"Guess that would explain the family resemblance of being covered in tattoos," Stiles mumbled, then yawned loudly.

"Don't sass your grandma, young man," she opened the door and both their eyes swept the room, a practiced habit.  Stiles shuffled in while peeling off his coat, dropping it on the floor.  He hit the closer twin bed face first and kicked off his shoes behind him.  He spoke into the mattress, words muffled and unintelligible.  Jolene turned from where she was putting her coat in the closet.

"I don't speak wookie, dear." she said, and Stiles turned his head so his mouth wasn’t full of blanket.

"Where are we?"

"East," she stated, and Stiles waited for her to continue, but she never did.

"Okaaay," he finally said, the worries from the car creeping back into his mind, "How far east?"

"Far enough," was the equally vague reply.  The warning bells were starting ringing full force.

"Far enough to what? Chuck a rock in the Mississippi?"

"Stiles," she sighed, "we're far enough east to be safe.  Why are you getting so concerned?"

"Uh, maybe because we just broke out of prison?  On the list of 'illegal things that police don't like' that's probably at least in the top 10.  I don't know, I never actually asked my dad what the top 10 was."

"The police won't be a problem." Jolene said ominously, and Stiles gave her a confused look.  She shrugged, "They're going to think that you're dead."

"What?!" Stiles sprung off the bed, "What do you mean 'dead'? How?"

"I mean 'dead' as in 'dead'.  They'll find your body after the fire dies down and you'll be able to continue with your life without the constant fear of being hunted.  All it took was a bit of magic mixed with a bit of truth," was her explanation.  Stiles was silent in thought for a moment before the idea sunk in.

"Oh my god, you actually killed someone," he said in awe, "You killed somebody and magicked it so people would think it was me."

"Both of us, actually," she replied, "It’s much easier to stay under the radar if you're dead."

"You killed two people..." Stiles back up until his knees hit the bed, and he let himself sit down with a thump. Jolene was unpacking her bag, placing things gently on the dresser.  Stiles watched the domestic scene in horror.  All his fears were nothing compared to this truth.  Jolene hadn't just created a theoretical strategy to get him out when opportunity arose; she had actively put in motion a murderous plan to break him out.  “The fire,” he said quietly, “that was you too.”

“Not entirely.  Just a few properly placed spells to ensure that the fire would be allowed to start and grow.”

“So I actually started it.  I burnt down that building…”

“We needed a proper diversion.”

“We didn’t _need_ anything.” Stiles hissed, “This was all _your_ plan.  Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to escape?  That I didn’t want to be responsible for all that destruction?”

“Regardless of whether you wanted to or not, you needed to leave.  If you hadn’t started the fire I would have.  You have great potential, Stiles, and your powers need to be trained.  You still have a lot to learn.  Being there was hindering your growth.”

“My growth?  Are you serious?  You killed people and burnt down a prison because you wanted me to be able to _learn faster_?” He was on his feet again, fists balled at his sides.

Jolene turned to him with an annoyed look on her face, as if he was some petulant child in the middle of a tantrum. “You have a gift, Stiles,” she said sternly, “One that many people would be very grateful to have.”  The bite is a gift, Stiles thought.  Was this the same kind of doubled-edged sword? “The abilities that you now have set you apart from other people.  You’re more powerful than the common rabble, you’re above them.  You don’t need to be bound by their rules.  We are practitioners, and that means that we sometimes step outside the laws of men to do what must be done.”

“This did not need to be done,” Stiles spoke with conviction, “This is murder, plain and simple.  I would not have agreed to this.  And I don’t want any part of it now.”  He turned and headed toward the door, but just as he reached for the handle his feet were swept out from under him.  He landed on the floor with a thud and felt a sharp pain as his head hit the ground.  Before he could react he was being pulled back into the room, sliding across the floor until he was lying beneath Jolene.  She hadn’t moved at all.

“I went through a lot of trouble to get you out of that prison.” Jolene said, voice calm and gentle.  Her tone didn’t match her demeanor as Stiles struggled to rise, but found a force holding him down. “And yes, it involved some unfortunate loss of life.  But you can’t honestly tell me that you of all people are completely innocent of murder.”

“I’ve never killed anyone.” Stiles said through clenched teeth, still lying on the ground.

“You were in prison for manslaughter, Stiles.”

“That wasn’t a human being.  And it wasn’t innocent.”

“Who ever said that the people I killed were innocent?   Who ever said they were human?” The weight on his chest lifted, and Stiles scrambled up.  He took a few steps back, but didn’t attempt to make for the door again.

“What were they, then?” He asked.

“Creatures of the dark.  Creatures I will teach you about, in time.”  She turned to her duffel and pulled out the Encyclopedia.  Stiles blinked in shock a few times, wondering how she had managed to grab it before the fire started.  She held the book out to him, but he didn’t step forward to take it.

“What about the others?  The people who were in the prison when it went up in flames?  You wanted to leave them behind to die.”

“They were not innocent either,” she reasoned, but Stiles shook his head.

“They weren’t monsters, they were people.  They did some shitty stuff, but they wouldn’t have deserved that.”

“There is good in this world, Stiles, and there is evil.  The ability we have, it is meant to be used for good.  And when it is used in such a way it can be a powerful tool to help bring about change.  _You_ can bring about this change, and that makes you more important than the common man, and particularly more important than the common criminal.   Their sacrifice would have been in the name of bringing peace to the world.”  He gawked at her in dread, speechless, and she shook the book in his direction once more.  When he didn’t step forward to take it from her, she signed and placed in to the dresser.  She ran her hand over its leather cover, admiring it.

“I know much more than this book.  I know things that would astound you, terrify you, things that would make you question everything you’ve ever known.  And I can teach you, all of it and more.  I took you from that place so that, together, you and I could save those who are truly innocent from the evil that lurks in the night.” She looked to Stiles, “There is so much danger in the world, more than you can imagine.  We must be the sentinels that guard humanity from that which works to destroy it.  I was taught how to defend mankind, and I have searched for many years to find someone worthy to pass my knowledge to.  You are the result of that search.  So let me teach you Stiles, let me give you the knowledge and strength you will need to become a true practitioner.”

Stiles studied her, eyes moving quickly up and down her frame.  She stood tall, proud, like a soldier ready for battle.  That’s what she thinks she is, Stiles thought.  That’s what she thinks I need to become.  A soldier against the monsters and creatures he was all too familiar with.  Wasn’t that what he wanted?  Wasn’t that what he had always planned for anyway?  This would just be a way to learn everything faster, rather than stumbling around in the dark with only a hunter’s old journal, and deranged uncle’s memories, and a can-do attitude.  Jolene would finally be someone with all the answers, someone he could turn to and get real information without having to work his way around metaphors and mystic warnings.

But could he trust her?  Could he trust that what she told him would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?  He believed that, if he asked, she would be honest.  But he didn’t believe she would share everything she knew straight away.  This entire scenario had grown from the fact that she hadn’t told him her plan.  And if the pack had learned anything, it was that it’s essential that everyone know the plan.  Otherwise, people got hurt. 

“Why me?” He asked, honestly confused about the point, “How did you even find me?”

“There are methods to find others of our kind.  I can teach you how to do it.  I had investigated others before you, but I found none that had the strength to take on this task.  And then I found you.  You already knew about the darkness in the world.  You fought against it, even without any powers of your own.  You were intelligent, resourceful, brave, driven.  I saw in you someone who would understand the importance of this mission.  I was going to approach you with an offer of apprenticeship, but then you were arrested.  I had to change my plans.”

“You were following me?” He looked at her incredulously, but she shrugged.

“Perhaps, but you can understand why I did it.  To find someone who can utilize this magic is rare, and you were the best option I had come across in a long time.”

Stiles looked at her, and let everything sink in.  He had always seen her as the wise and coddling grandmother, the type who lived over the river and through the woods and when you’d visit she’d pinch your cheek and bake you cookies.  She was a good teacher, patient and forgiving.  Stiles had trusted her.  But now?  Jolene had taken that trust and beaten it to death like the piñata at Scott’s 9th birthday party.  The two boys had been so hopped up on cake and sugar that the poor thing hadn’t even seen it coming.  The tattered bits of colored paper and cardboard littered the lawn for months, too tiny to pick up every piece.   That was what he had with Jolene, a handful of tiny broken pieces of their trust, and he certainly was not going to try and put it back together.

Stiles weighed his options.  The first was to listen to what Jolene was saying, to accept her offer and become a warrior alongside her.  He could stay, learn, develop his powers.  He would be fighting against the same type of monsters he always had, and eventually he would attempt to return to the pack and share his knowledge with them.  It would be the perfect plan, but Stiles had the feeling that it wasn’t as simple as it seemed.  Jolene seemed sincere, but he knew now it was just a front.  She had been willing to let an entire building, and all the people inside, burn to the ground in order to take him on as a student.  He didn’t think she would let him go so easily.

On the other hand, he could always refuse her offer and try to leave now rather than later.  He didn’t think she would be too keen on that option either.  He would be severely outmatched if he needed to fight his way out, and he seriously doubted he would be able to beat her.  She may not be physically stronger than him, but she could cast a greater variety of spells and was much more practiced.  He didn’t even know the full extent of her power.  And if she knew that he wasn’t going to go along with her plan, she may decide he wasn’t worth the effort and simply kill him. 

There was no way he was going to be able to escape right now, he knew that much.  And he wasn’t too enamored with her ideology either.  Stiles though he was pretty awesome, especially since he could now strike down enemies a la Zeus-like powers.  But Jolene took it to a whole new level, it seemed like she was looking down on the mere mortals of the world from a balloon inflated by her own ego.  Stiles thought being a practitioner was cool, but not _that_ cool.  Humility was a virtue that one learned well when fighting alongside werewolves, and Stiles knew that though he was significantly more badass now, he wasn’t some sort of god.  Jolene apparently thought otherwise.

So his only option was to wait.  He needed to stay with her, learn what he could, and wait until the opportunity presented itself for him to make a getaway.  He didn’t know how long that would be, and he didn’t know what he would have to do, but it was the only option that he had.  Everyone would think he was dead, his dad, Scott, Derek…

Oh god, Derek.  Derek would think he had lost someone else to the flames.  Stiles’ resolve faltered for a moment thinking of what would happen when the news aired, when someone had to tell Derek that he had died trapped in a burning building.  This would kill him…

But Stiles needed to stay strong.  This was the best, if only plan that he had.  He would just need to convince Jolene that he believed in all her pro-practitioner propaganda, but that would be easy enough.  He was might not be able to take Jolene in a fight, but he could lie better than her on his worst day.

“I get it.” He said, letting his face relax.  He forced himself to let his posture change into something less defensive.  He saw her react and mirror his actions, though she wasn’t entirely off guard.  “The world is a scary place, I know it.  I’ve _seen_ it.” He took a deep breath, “I’m just…I just wish you would have told me.  I understand that we need to use these powers to help people, and that’s what’s important.  But I wish you would have been honest with me about it, about what you planned to do.”

“I’m sorry, dear.”  She said, walking over slowly to take his hand in hers.  He had to fight not to flinch at her touch.  “I didn’t want to risk you not agreeing to the plan.  You said yourself, you didn’t want to leave.”

“I think if you had told me why we needed to leave, that you were doing it so we could help people, I would have gone with you.” He lied, “I wouldn’t have wanted to stay in there if I knew that there was something greater that I was supposed to be doing.”

She smiled, a genuine grin, and Stiles knew she was hooked.

“I want to learn everything,” he said, “I want to help you.”

“I’m glad,” she leaned in to hug him, and Stiles awkwardly hugged back, “I’ll try to be more honest with you about things.  I did it for your own good, but I can see how you would be upset.”

“Sorry I overreacted.” He told her as she pulled back, and she tutted him.

“No, no, I shouldn’t have pushed you around like that. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“I was scared, but I gotta admit it was pretty cool.”  It wasn’t cool, Stiles thought, it was terrifying.  But everyone is susceptible to flattery.

“You’ll learn it all eventually,” she patted his arm, “For now, get some rest.  We’ll leave tomorrow morning and meet up with a friend of mine.  He’ll give us a place to stay.”

“Sounds like a plan,” He paused, hoping that this next question wasn’t too risky, “Do you mind if I call my Dad?”  Jolene went rigid, face set into hardened stone, and Stiles knew he had made a mistake.  “It’s just, since we’re supposed to be dead and all I don’t want him to worry, I’m the only family he’s got and I just-”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Stiles.” Her voice was hollow and monotone, and Stiles nodded eagerly.  Backpedal, he thought, backpedal hard.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” His voice cracked slightly, but he kept going, “Wouldn’t be very good if we’re supposed to be under the radar and I call a Sheriff, huh?”  Jolene’s lips quirked slightly in a small smile.  Keep it up Stilinski, he cheered, sell it, “He’d probably just freak out and try and come get me and then we’d be back at square one.  Sorry, didn’t really think that one through.” He let out a small laugh and saw Jolene relax. 

“Go to sleep, Stiles, you’ve had a rough day.” She told him, heading towards her own bed.

So Stiles did as he was told.  He went to sleep, though he didn’t get much rest.  In the morning he took a shower and accepted the clothes that Jolene offered.  He ate his diner breakfast with a smile, and got in the car without a word when Jolene declared it time to head out.  He hummed to the radio as he watched the scenery go by.

But in his mind he was planning.   He needed to get in contact with his dad, with the pack, with _someone_.  He needed to keep Jolene placated and unassuming.  He needed to learn from her, needed to get enough knowledge and skill to give him a real chance of escape.  But _how_?

He didn’t have all the answers, not yet.  But he was patient, and he would find them.  He just hoped it wouldn’t take to long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long to get out! I've been super busy with work, moving apartments, family gatherings, yada yada yada. But you don't want excuses! You want results! So I hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know what you thought! I'll try to get the next one out a bit faster!
> 
> And again, thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, left kudos, or even just skimmed the story so far! You guys are all absolutely amazing, and I just hope that I'm writing something that you enjoy <3 Thank you thank you!
> 
> As always, feel free to talk to me on tumblr: http://beingfrozen.tumblr.com/


	8. Kung-Fu Kid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I suck. Utterly and completely. Sorry that this is eons late. You guys seriously just need to send me nasty messages and tell me to get off my lazy bum and write stuff.
> 
> Also, please be forewarned that this chapter contains mild emotional and physical abuse concurrent to being kidnapped and forced to learn magic by a crazy old lady. Like, she's super cray cray.

Walter was just as old as Jolene, and just as nutty.  He lived in a small shack in the middle of Nevada, no one around for miles.  When Stiles had stepped out of the car he thought that Jolene had changed her mind and had decided to kill him after all.  Because the tiny shack with peeling paint and broken windows?  Definitely a fantastic place to hide a dead body.  It gave off one of the best (read: worst) haunted house vibes Stiles had ever had the displeasure of feeling.  The door was banging on its hinges and the front porch seemed to be rotting before his eyes.  The whole building looked like it couldn't be any bigger than a single room, and the little old man on the porch didn't look like he took very kindly to visitors.

He sat in a rocking chair with a pipe clenched between his lips.  Or at least Stiles figured it was in his mouth.  Walter's hair on his head had apparently decided it was too windy up top, and had migrated down to cover most of his face in a magnificent grey beard, speckled with black and brown hues. His face was covered in deep wrinkles, all the more visible with his bare head, and his features seemed small and scrunched, like he had been glaring at everyone so long that his face had stuck that way.

The only thing that indicated that they were in the right place was the tattoos covering Walter's forearms.  They rested on the arms of the rocking chair, covered in inked symbols that Stiles was getting better at recognizing.  Some were Yantra tattoos, like his own.  He saw the Yant Maha Amnaj, for commanding power, and the Metta Maha Miyom, to calm an angry foe.  But other tattoos were Celtic knots or sharp geometric designs he couldn’t even fathom the meanings of.  All he knew was that Walter had a lot of them, and would be just as formidable a foe as Jolene.

Stiles was honestly surprised when Jolene climbed the stairs and Walter stood up to embrace her.  He thought the old man would be more likely to shoot them before any sort of proper greeting.  Walter must have been expecting them, because he didn’t spend much time on pleasantries anyway.  Just gave Stiles a quick nod and a pat on the back.  Not even a name, even though Jolene had told him about the man before they had arrived.  Walter motioned for them to both enter the shack, and Stiles reluctantly followed him inside. 

The interior of the house, if it could even be called that, was worse than the outside.  Broken furniture littered the room, dusty books were thrown haphazardly about the floor, a broken mirror lay in one corner.  Jolene and Walter were talking, making jokes about the traffic on some road that Stiles had never heard of, and they seemed to be completely unconcerned about the disaster zone they were standing in.  Stiles, however, was very concerned.  Mostly about tetanus.

Walter kneeled down to the floor and Stiles thought he was going to just sit in the middle of the room, because none of the chairs inside seemed like they would be up to the job.  But the old man touched one of his tattoos and brought his fingers to the floor, and suddenly a large glyph started glowing in the wooden beams.  It faded as quickly as it appeared, and in its place a spiral staircase led down into the ground.

Stiles was mildly annoyed at how unsurprised he was.

They descended the stairs, and Stiles could only adequately describe the room at the bottom as 'bunker chic'.  It was homey, with a couch and colorful pillows, a quaint coffee table and a small television.  The open floor plan led to a kitchen with old appliances that Stiles guessed were installed in the early 70's.  The whole room gave off the feel of any other old person's home.  However the concrete walls, lack of windows, and musty smell reminded him that they were underground.  Hallways to both sides led to closed doors that must have led to bedrooms or storage.  He wasn't claustrophobic, but the whole place made him feel cramped.

"Stiles, you alright?" Jolene asked, eying him from the kitchen.

"Yeah, I'm good, just getting used to the warm and fuzzy Cold War vibe this place has going on." He thumbed in the direction of the hallway, "This place got a bathroom?"

"Left hall, third door." Walter said, voice slow with age.

"Thanks," and he headed to the aforementioned steel door.  He glanced at the other doors in the hall, and they all looked like they would be more at home in a submarine than a house/bunker/magic dungeon.  Then again, Stiles hadn't been in many magic dungeons, so maybe this style was all the rage.

The bathroom was just as homey as the kitchen.  The whole decor of the bunker clashed horribly with the very setting they were in.  Walter had tried to make this place warm and livable, but at its bones it was still a hole in the ground meant to hide its occupants from the threats of war.  What was Walter so afraid of the he needed to live in a magically hidden bunker in the middle of the desert?

Turns out, Walter was afraid of everything.  Over the next few months Stiles barely left sight of the rickety shack.  And when he did it was only after Walter spent at least half an hour warning about what could be found outside.  One day it was pixies, the next it was Spanish influenza, the next week it was the probability of being hit by lightning.  Literally nothing was off the table when it came to Walter’s irrational fears.  Stiles once spent an entire meal listening to the dangers of lighting candles indoors, and he thought his mind was going to melt and seep into his soup.  Walter really liked making soups.  Stiles guessed it was because there were fewer things to choke on with soup, but he certainly wasn’t going to ask Walter and get lectured for three hours about the dangers of not chewing his food enough.

He at least got his doses of sunny vitamin D from his magical instruction.  He and Jolene would go topside to practice spells, shooting lightning at empty bottles and calling up gusts of wind to blow tumbleweeds through the desert.  But they never went far, and they always retreated down into the bunker once they were done.

It wasn't just target practice either.  Walter and Jolene had him on a strict educational schedule.  He had lessons on the history of magic and its practitioners, about the 'creatures of the night' that Jolene had told him about.  And though that was certainly a fanciful designation, Stiles was thought that 'the shit that will try to kill you if you don't watch out' was a more accurate description.  He already knew a lot more than they had expected, and Stiles had laughed darkly at his good fortune of knowing all the ways a fairy can kill you and breezing through that homework assignment.

Every month or so they'd all head out into a nearby town (after a stern lecture from Walter about the grizzly deaths that may await them in the scary outside-the-bunker world).  A tattoo parlor sat nestled on the outskirts, and the artists were apparently all good friends with Walter.  Some of the tattoos on his hands needed re-touching occasionally, so he was familiar with the place.  Jolene got a few of her more delicate pieces fixed up when they stopped by.  Stiles, the tattooists were happy to find, was a blank canvas which he was determined to fill up.  He got a new symbol or two every time they stopped by, and soon he barely even felt as the needle pierced into his skin again and again.

Stiles got to know the people at the tattoo parlor pretty well, considering the amount of time that he spent there.  He realized pretty quickly that they had no idea that the tattoos that they were giving him were allowing him to do things like call up sandstorms and mentally control small animals.  They just thought that he was an ink obsessed kid with supportive grandparents.

Tracy owned the shop and had two kids in elementary school who she’d happily talk about for hours.  Jake was the big burly biker-guy type who looks like he’d rather punch you in the face than chat, but on Stiles’ second visit he admitted to crying during the beginning of _Up_.  Morgan staffed the front desk and always had candy stashed away somewhere.  Craig and Brent were brothers who grew up in town and left for art school together, returning when their sister got sick.  Stiles started to really get to know them, and could tell when they all started having a soft spot for him.  He liked to think it was because of his charming personality and great sense of humor, but he figured it was more likely because he passed out the first time he showed up.  Jolene couldn’t use magic to dull any of his pain, like she had done in the prison, and he was apparently a lot more nervous than he thought he would be.

By the time Christmas arrived his left arm was nearly covered.  His aim was much improved, and Jolene was starting to show him how to create glyphs like the one that hid the entrance to the bunker.  Walter had a small gym hidden behind one of the submarine doors, and Stiles had been trying to build up his endurance.  The magic took its toll on his energy, but he found that he was getting stronger, able to cast more spells before passing out from exhaustion.  And when he said pass out, he _meant_ pass out.

Because as patient as Jolene was as a teacher, she wasn't exactly by-the-book.  She had a tough love philosophy, which was more of a love-hate relationship for Stiles.  On one hand, constantly pushing him to his limits was helping him to grow.  On the other hand, everything constantly sucked.  He was exhausted _all_ the time, he could never seem to eat enough, and he would go from day to day wondering which one of his body parts was going to ache next.  Jolene would have him cast spells until he blacked out, throw real attacks at him while he tried to defend himself.  Once she had even broken his arm so he could heal it himself.  Motivation, she called it.  Mean is what Stiles called it, along with some other more colorful adjectives that weren't very nice to say in front of old ladies.

Not that he ever told her any of his true feelings on the matter.  On the outside, Stiles was the best student that a psycho teacher with a god complex could ever ask for. He listened to all her advice, followed all her instructions, laughed at all her jokes no matter how dark they got.  He did all the required reading, though that was something he probably would have been happy to do anyway.  The topics were interesting, the lessons were informative.  It’s just that learning everything took time and effort.  A lot of effort.  Effort that usually hurt.

But Stiles used that pain as a different kind of motivation than Jolene intended.  Every time she knocked the air from his lungs, every time she threw him across the dusty landscape, every time the needles drove the ink into his skin as she watched, Stiles would let the anger and the hatred fester inside of him.  He clung to it; let it grow outward from his heart until it consumed him.  He let it ground him.

Once he was lying in his bed, a hard mattress on a metal frame, and staring up at the ceiling while letting everything that Jolene had ever done or said cycle through his mind.  He was so angry he wanted to scream, but then his mind suddenly stopped, and all of sudden a tiny thought crossed his mind.

When Derek thinks of Kate, is this how he feels?

A lot of things made sense in that moment.  Derek’s actions and intentions seemed so much clearer.  But the understanding brought with it memories of Derek, and with that all of the anger bled out of Stiles.  He curled into a ball and bit his lip, clenching his eyes together and willing the ache in his chest to subside.  Of all the pain that Stiles felt, this was the worst.  Knowing that Derek thought he was dead was like an animal was caged inside of him, sharp claws trying to dig their way out.

He should have returned his letters.  He should have talked to him, told him what was going on.  He should have let him know about the magic and Jolene and...

But all of that what-ifs would do nothing for him now.  He would never see Derek again if all he could do was dwell on past mistakes.  He needed a course of action.  And the first thing he needed to do was let the pack know he wasn’t dead.

So Stiles came up with a plan.  It was pretty simple, and a little stupid, but it was the only conceivable plan that he could think up.  It started with using the trust he had built.  He only hoped he had worked hard enough.

“The library?” Jolene raised her eyebrows, forkful of pancakes hovering in midair.

“Yeah.  The town has one, right?”

“Yeah, but why do you want to go?” She asked, bringing the fork to her mouth and chewing.

“Because I want to learn how to juggle chainsaws.” He responds dryly, trying to keep it casual, “Why do you think? I want to get out some books.”

“What books?” She asks through a mouthful of pancake.

“I don’t know, I was just going to browse.” He pouts dramatically, “Why don’t you want me to read?  Mrs. White would be really upset with you.”

“Who’s Mrs. White?”

“My first grade teacher.  I was kind of a hyperactive kid, took her forever to get me to sit down and shut up, let alone read Henry and Mudge.  She’d be happy to see my current state.”

“You read all the time.  Aren’t the books here good enough?”

“They’re fine, but my brain is melting from the sheer amount of information.  Reading technical writing is fun for about the first, oh, ten or twenty books, but it gets dry.  I just want to pick up something fictional to read before I go to sleep, help me unwind a bit.”

“Have you been having trouble sleeping?” She asks, trying to pull Stiles off topic.

“I usually had a little trouble back home.  I kept something on my bedside table to read when I had trouble.  I thought I could just pick up something familiar from the library to calm my brain down before bed.

Jolene looks at him in silence for a few seconds before nodding her head. Stiles wants to stand up and cheer, but he keeps it all inside.  A few days later they stop at the library on the way home from the tattoo parlor.  Stiles browses the fiction section as Jolene signs them up for library cards.  He picks a few different books, along with the one that will help him to complete his plan.  When they leave and Jolene seems none the wiser, Stiles thinks that things are finally starting to go his way.

But then the next day Jolene tells him to pack his bags and get in the car.  No explanation, no clues, just “Pack your duffel and head topside.  The car’s unlocked.” Stiles does as he’s told, as usual, and they head out as soon as Jolene shoves her own bag in the trunk and climbs in the driver’s seat.  After about 15 minutes of awkward silence as the desert land passed by Stiles drummed his hands on his knees.

“Sooooo…” he ventured, “Where are we going? I’m guessing not the tattoo parlor cause we usually don’t need an overnight bag for that.”

“We’re going on assignment.” Jolene answered, almost like an order.

“Assigned by whom?” Stiles looked at her wide eyed and incredulous.

“Mine.  It’s high time that you started making use of your powers.”

“Oh my god, we’re actually going to hunt monsters?”

“Walter got a call from a friend a few hours south of here.  They think there’s a Rugaru wandering around the town.  We’re going to go kill it.”

“A Rugaru?  Why haven’t I heard of that?”

“It’s a Native American monster, but the name itself is the pronunciation of a French phrase.  It’s not a name that’s used often in these parts.  More of a southern type of thing.”

“Well what it is?”

“A type of shapeshifter, a mix of French legends and Algonquian stories about Windigos.”

“A Windigo?  So it’s been _eating_ people?”

“Not sure, Walter just said it’s been killing people.”

“Well, that’s a good enough reason to stop it.”

“Hmmm,” Jolene hummed in agreement, pulling onto the freeway.

“So since my first actual ‘assignment’” Stiles said, air quotes in full effect, “is against a monster you haven’t actually had me read about, what do we need to be concerned with?”

“Concerned with?” Jolene sassed, eyebrows raised to glance sideways at him with a grin, “Not nervous, are you kiddo?”

“I just would prefer to go into this knowing what we’re up against.  Is it poisonous, have mind control powers, shoot laser beams?  You gotta gimme something here.” Stiles was asking in all seriousness, but Jolene only laughed.

“It’s not as deadly as you think it is.” She chided.

“Jolene, you literally just said that its killing people.  That is kind of the definition of ‘deadly’ if you haven’t looked that up lately.” He deadpanned.

“For most people, yes.  Not for us.” She grinned smugly at the road, but when she glanced back and Stiles face hadn’t changed from his annoyed glare she sighed and continued, “It’s supposed to be able to turn other people into a Rugaru upon sight, but that’s just legend.  Otherwise it’s not much more dangerous than anything you’ve faced before. Just keep your distance from it and you’ll be fine, they have a nasty bite.”

The rest of the ride was spent in moderate silence.  A few conversations here and there about the town they were headed to, and Jolene quizzed him on a few of the topics they had recently covered: defense as an offence against flying creatures.  Not that it would help, since the Rugaru _couldn’t fly_.  Stiles spent most of the time getting more and more frustrated that Jolene wouldn’t tell him much about the creature or what they were getting themselves into.  _It’s a test_ his mind supplied.  All of this was some twisted test in this ridiculous training.

He didn’t want a test.  He wanted to go home.  He looked out the window at the scenery passing by and felt a horrible pang deep in his chest.  The homesickness flooded him and it was all he could do to curl up in a ball in his seat.

He wanted to be in his room at home, lying on his bed, listening to the sounds of his father downstairs cooking dinner and humming some stupid song.  He wanted to play lacrosse with Scott while Lydia and Allison sat on the bleachers and talked about jeans and nail polish.  He wanted to bicker with Jackson about something inconsequential and listen to Erica’s laughter as she judged them both for their stupidity.  He wanted to watch Boyd and Isaac have another arm wrestling contest.  He wanted to thread his fingers through Derek’s hair as the werewolf fell asleep during a movie, content and safe enough to close his eyes and relax.  He wanted Beacon Hills.  He wanted his life back.  He wanted a clean record and clean skin.  He wanted _home_.

But this was what he had instead.  A death certificate with his name on it and a teacher that made the Mad Hatter look like he had his life together.  And he was going to need to man up and deal with it.

And he could do that just fine when he was awake and starring out the window.  But when the roll of the car gently lulled him to sleep it was much harder to keep the dreams at bay.

His dreams of home usually involved Derek, and this was no different.  They were lying in that stupid empty apartment that Derek refused to leave cause ‘ _I like the_ view’ and ‘ _the rent is cheap_ ’ and ‘ _it smells like pack_ ’.  Stiles was walking around, and in his dream the furniture was in all the wrong places and the light coming through the window was switching back and forth between dark and light, night and day, slowly fading into one another.  Derek was standing looking out into the changing light, silhouetted by the hues as they cycled.  Stiles went up behind him and slipped his arms around the taller man.  Derek leaned back into the embrace, and Stiles rested his forehead on a leather clad shoulder.

_Stiles…_

“What is it, Derek?” Stiles asked, a whisper, and Derek turned.  But as soon as Stiles got a view of Derek’s grinning face it was gone, fading into smoke that escaped Stiles’ grasp.  Stiles looked at his hands, shocked, and found that his fingers shimmered with the dust of mountain ash.  He looked up and the room was suddenly empty, wrong furniture no longer in the wrong place.  The concrete floor was cracked and when Stiles turned back to the window it was gone as well.  In its place is was mirror, gigantic and imposing in the now empty room.  In the mirror he saw the room as it had been, he saw the Derek that had disappeared; behind him was Scott and Allison, the rest of the pack, all looking at him with smiles and warmth.  When Stiles turned to check behind him, his room was still empty, and he was still alone.

_Stiles…please…_

He reached out and touched the cold glass, willing himself to fall through it like Alice, to escape this twisted wonderland.  But the mirror was painfully solid.

_Stiles…please…listen…_

Derek, on the other side of the glass, reached out his own hand and placed it against Stiles’.  The pack looked on, their happy faces betraying their sadness and longing.  Stiles wanted to shatter the glass, break the mirror and take the pity off of their faces.  But if he broke it, would he ever see his friends again?

_Stiles…are you there?_

And then, as if hearing his thoughts, the mirror exploded into shards of shrapnel.  It drove into his skin, and as the burn and pain coursed its way through him he jolted awake.

He was still in the car, driving through the bright desert with Jolene behind the wheel humming along to the greatest hits of the 80s on the radio.  Stiles rubbed his eyes, shook his head, willed the dream away.  The mirror, the room, Derek…the voice.  Whose voice had that been?

“You woke up right on time,” Jolene turned onto the nearest exit as Stiles blinked the sleep out of his eyes, “You ready for the hunt?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, if it's been more than two weeks without a new chapter, I give you full and complete permission to yell at me. You can even use swear words if you want! Get nasty! Insult my intelligence! Play on my insecurities! But please, leave my mother out of this, she's a lovely woman. As always - beingfrozen.tumblr.com
> 
> I know this chapter is a little dry. I'm setting up for stuff. Let me know what you think about where the story is going! Or just my writing in general, I'm always trying to improve!


	9. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Stiles

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“Do you need the French pronunciation? _Non_.  I’m not doing this.”

Jolene gave him a pitying look, head tilted to the side.  “Stiles, you don’t need to be afraid-”

“I’m not afraid.” He spit at her, “and I’m not killing him.”

Jolene’s hand tightened around the man’s throat.  Her long nails dug into his skin, and Stiles saw the first drips of blood running down his neck.  The man’s eyes were wide with fear, breathing in broken gasps. 

“Where is this attitude coming from?” Jolene asked, her voice cheerily chiding him.  He glowered at her.  She thought he was joking, he realized. 

“Jolene, I need to tell you something I should have told you a long time ago.” He took a deep breath and looked her dead in the eye, “You are balls to the wall insane.”

* * *

The town was small.  It was small and sandy and quiet.  Jolene pulled them into a biker bar and Stiles instantly hated the place.  He didn’t know why, but the whole demeanor of the building was screaming at him to run in the opposite direction and never look back.  It was concrete, with windows covered in neon lights.  The couple standing outside talking eyed them as they walked past, scanning their tattoos.  They were hunters, Stiles could tell from the way they stood and the way they stared.  His whole body wanted to bolt.

But he walked in and sat down at a table with Jolene.  A man walked up and sat down, placing a beer bottle gently on the table.  Stiles guessed the man was probably his father’s age.

“Jolene.” He mumbled.

“Jeff.  How’s the situation?” Her reply was curt and to the point.  Jeff didn't seem to mind.  Stiles' eyes jumped back and forth between them nervously.

“Two attacks on humans so far, only one death though.  Not sure of its hiding spot, but I haven’t had the time to hunt it down myself.  The boys and I were busy with a nymph a bit south of here.  All we know is that the thing is holed up in one of the abandoned warehouses just outside of town.  Try the old steel place first.”

“Go worry about your nymph.  The kid and I can take it from here.” Jolene threw a twenty dollar bill on the table and got up.  Stiles scrambled up after her and headed back out to the car.

“Well, that was quick.” He slung himself back in the passenger seat as Jolene gunned the engine, “I thought we were gonna be going tag team with the locals.”

Jolene scoffed, “Who, with Jeff?  Man couldn’t find his backside if you gave him a map.  No, you and I are going to do this alone.  Besides, more experience for you, right?”

* * *

Jolene glared at him, fingers tightening on the man’s neck, “What did you just say to me?”

“I said you were nuts.  Crazy.  Insane.  Missing some colors from the Crayola box.  I can continue if you’re still lost.”

The poor guy with Jolene’s fingers wrapped around his throat looked at Stiles like he was out of his mind, and his eyes flittered from Stiles to the woman inches from choking him to death.

“You think I’m crazy for hunting down the beasts that slaughter innocent people?”  Jolene asked, confused, and Stiles rolled his eyes with a huff.

“Are you serious?  You’re going to stand there and tell me that you don’t have a few loose bolts up there?  I’m a freaking 18 year old kid that you trained to kill people.  Who does that?”

“If you’re quite finished with this little tirade, Stiles,” Jolene glared at him, “I would like to finish what we came here for.”

* * *

The warehouse was large, empty, and smelt like metal.  Walking inside, a sharp taste entered Stiles’ mouth.  Steel lay littered on the ground, and Stiles ran his fingers across an I-beam as he walked through the expansive space.

“You know, it would be a lot easier to help you look for clues if you told me a little more about this thing!” His shout carried across the building to where Jolene was inspecting an abandoned crane.

“I’ve told you what you need to know.  Just keep an eye out, _feel_ for what you’re looking for.”

“What does that even mean?” Stiles yelled back, but turned to inspect the ground nearby when he received no reply.

He walked around the building for an hour, ducking under beams and picking a path through empty offices.  _Feel you’re way_ Stiles thought, but all he felt was the chill through the drafty walls.  Eventually he sat down in what appeared to be a break room, a broken coffee machine sitting on a counter keeping him company.

This was stupid.  He was wandering around an empty building looking for a monster he knew nothing about because a woman he hated more than death itself had told him too.  He kicked over a nearby chair in anger and crossed his arms in what Derek had often described as his ‘petulant child’ look.  Stiles didn’t care if he was pouting.  He was tired and cranky.

He let his head fall back and he stared at the ceiling in frustration.  This…whatever it was…had killed someone, which wasn’t cool.  But Stiles still felt like something was wrong with this whole situation.  Something didn’t sit right with him about Jolene’s attitude.  Something about the meeting with Jeff, how brisk it was, how clipped the conversation, it was all off.  Something was…

Something was on the ceiling.

Stiles tilted his head and looked from a different angle.  There was something definetely different about that one plaster area, so he got up and stood carefully on the chair.  He ran his fingers over the claw marks that protruded from the edge of the industrial ceiling tile.  They ran right to the edge, then stopped suddenly.  Almost like someone had grasped the edge of the tile.  Stiles pushed up, and found that it moved easily, revealing an easy opening into the rafters.  He grasped the edge and attempted to pull himself up, but gave up after a few seconds.  He thought, amazed, that whoever had climbed up there had some _serious_ upper body strength.

He brought his hand down to rest on a Celtic knot on his left arm, and let his mind fill with thoughts of strength, of the memory of carrying Scott’s limp body onto Deaton’s table, the adrenaline that had filled his body as he had hauled his nearly lifeless friend through the rain.  Later, when telling Allison and Lydia what he had done to save him, they had shook their heads and said it wasn’t possible.  But he had done it, against all odds.

He could feel the strength spread easily through him, and this time when he reached up to the ceiling, he pulled himself up as if he weighed no more than a feather.  Once in the rafters he took a deep breath and let the magic dissipate.  No need to wander around with super strength for longer than necessary.  It would only tire him out, and he would probably manage to break something in the process…possibly himself.

Stiles surveyed the area and headed to his left, something in the back of his mind pointing him in that direction.  _Feel your way_ he reminded himself.

He was rewarded with what he could best describe as a den.  There were blankets, books, candles, some bottles of water.  A squatters nest, except for the claw marks covering the entire area.  Stiles ran his fingers over them gently, spreading his own nails outs to run along the claw grooves.  They looked familiar, like the claw marks he had seen a thousand times from his friends.  But it couldn’t be…could it?

He glanced around the area again, wishing for Scott’s superior nose or Derek’s keen eyes.  If there really was a werewolf staying here, they would know instantly.  But he didn’t have their abilities, so he turned and left.  Climbing down, he gingerly replaced the ceiling tile.

It couldn’t be a werewolf.  Werewolves weren’t naturally bad.  Yeah, some of them were dicks with a weird set of morals, but they weren’t evil.  And whatever this beast was, it was killing people.  So maybe he was wrong, maybe he was just making a big deal out of nothing.  But the little voice in the back of his mind wouldn’t shut up, screaming at him that there was something he was missing.

He made his way back to the main area of the warehouse and found Jolene near a scrap pile.  She looked up as he made his way over.

“Find anything?” She asked, and he shrugged.

“Nah, the place seems deserted.  Maybe we’ve got the wrong abandoned steel mill?”

She snorted in amusement, shook her head and then turned back to the scrap metal.  Stiles fidgeted with his hands for a moment before shoving them in his pockets.  Rugaru...

"You said...you said the thing we were hunting is French?"

"It’s Native American."  
  
"But you said the word Rugaru came from a French pronunciation."

"Yes, that's right."

Rugaru.

La loup garou.

Werewolf.  That's how you say werewolf in French.

"Well fuck." Stiles said out loud, and Jolene gave him a wide eyed glare.

"Stiles, watch your language please." She said sternly.  

* * *

“When I said no, I didn’t just mean that I’m not going to kill him,” Stiles told her darkly, “I meant that no one is killing anyone else.  I’m cancelling this little murder-fest.”

“And why exactly are you doing that?” Jolene spat, “This beast has already killed someone.”

“Yeah, but did you ask him about that?  Do you know anything about him other than the fact that he’s a werewolf?” Stiles carefully kept his arms at his sides, hanging loosely.  If he needed to throw something at her, he would need to get to his tattoos as quickly as possible.  “You haven’t thought this through Jolene.”

“I don’t need to know anything more about him.  I know enough. He’s a killer, all of his kind are.” 

Stiles quirked his head at her. “Uh, wow, that’s kind of racist, don’t you think?”

* * *

When Stiles fell asleep at the cheap motel they had rented a room in, he found himself in the same dark room he had dreamed of on the drive into town.  Derek’s apartment, empty of all belongings, mirror situated unbroken on the wall.  Only this time there was no Derek.  There was just Walter.

Wait…what?

Stiles did a double take to make sure it was really the paranoid old man standing in the middle of the empty room.  But it was, and he was the only person there.  Stiles walked over and reached out to tap him on the shoulder.

The image of Walter shook, like a movie skipping.  Stiles took a frightened step back, bringing his hands up into a ready position.

“Stiles, sorry that I couldn’t catch you earlier,” Walter said, staring into the distance and not at all towards Stiles, “I tried to connect with you, but there was a fog on your dream, protection.  I hadn’t realized that Jolene had started teaching you that sort of thing yet.  Couldn’t make my way in.”

“She hasn’t taught me about-“ but Walter continued as if Stiles wasn’t there.

“Had to leave this message instead.  It’s just a recording, but I need to tell you the truth about what’s going on.  It was too dangerous to tell you while you were here, she could have overheard.  Jolene is…” Walter paused, sighing deeply.  Stiles listened intently.

“She’s a good friend, and old friend.  But she’s slipping.  She used to want to protect people, she was in it for all the right reasons.  But now…She’s hell bent on revenge.  And she’s using you to get what she wants.  I know you’ve seen it, seen that she’s not all there.  I can tell from the way you look at her.  And I’m here to tell you the truth.”

* * *

“I know the truth now, Jolene.” Stiles said, “I know what really happened to your family.”

Suddenly Jolene was all smiles once again, “What are you talking about?”

“It wasn’t vampires that killed them,” Stiles kept his eyes glued on her, “It was werewolves.  Your family were hunters.  They broke the code, they attacked an innocent pack.  And the pack retaliated.  All of this?  This is just you trying to get even.”

Jolene’s smile faded slowly, and her eyes grew dark.  “Well now, this changes things, doesn’t it?”

And with that she moved to rip out the werewolf’s throat.

* * *

“You can stop her Stiles.” Walter said, “You’re stronger than you realize.  She searched for someone as powerful as you for a long time, thinking she could use you.  But you’re too smart to fall for her craziness.”

Stiles felt himself shaking, but he held onto the dream desperately.  He needed to hear everything Walter said, keep it all in his mind and use it to fuel him.  Jolene was going to go on a werewolf murdering spree, and he was the only one that could stop it.

“Fight back.  If you’re not ready, at least get away.  You can stop her, Stiles.  I know you can do it.”

The dream recording of Walter froze, apparently at its end.  Stiles stood up and ran his hand through the transparent figure.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  Jolene hadn’t shown him how to do it, but he certainly wasn’t going to ask her about it now.

He reached out with his mind, following the mental path that Walter had left behind.  He finally found the end, a consciousness that he could _feel_.  He pushed against it, felt it give.  He projected his message through, speaking aloud to solidify it.

“Walter…its Stiles.  I got your message.  I’m not really sure what I’m doing here, but hopefully you’ll get this.  I need you to go in my room and get a sealed letter off my desk.  Scry the address for a woman named Lydia Martin.  Give the letter to the guys at the tattoo parlor, they’ll send it for you, I already told them about it.  Lydia will know what to do with it. I would have sent it myself, but I’m not coming back.  I’m…I’m going to run.”

* * *

Overall, finding the werewolf hadn’t been as hard as he thought it would be.  Werewolves were somewhat his specialty, and the signs were clear.  It was getting the guy to trust him that was the issue.

“You’re just going to put a bullet between my eyes you tattooed freak!”

"Okay, wow, no."

"Don't think you can lie to me, I saw you running around with that psychotic bitch today.”

"Uh, so funny story.  I actually had, like, zero idea she was trying to kill werewolves."

"Bullshit!"

"No, really!  And I am totally against werewolf killing!  Like, dude, my _boyfriend_ is a werewolf.  And so is my best friend.  Actually most of my friends are werewolves.  Wow, that's kind of sad now that I think of it..."

"You're such a piece of shit."

"Okay, tough guy, if I wanted to kill you then why haven’t I done it yet?” The man paused, unsure, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Stiles mumbled.

“You can’t,” the werewolf eyed him cautiously, still hesitant, “You don’t know how.  You’re just waiting for that woman to show up and do it herself.”

In response, Stiles reached down and dew a bolt of lightning from his arm, throwing it at the wall to his right.  It shot out with a deafening crack, and small flames lingered on the wall where the bolt struck.  “Trust me, man,” he said, “If I wanted to mess you up, I wouldn’t need backup.”

“Shit,” the werewolf said under his breath, eyes wide staring at the wall and the darkened and chipped bricks. He glanced back to Stiles quickly, eying him up and down.

“And don’t even think that I haven’t noticed you not mentioning my heartbeat.  Know why it’s not freaking out? Because I’m not here to hurt you.” Stiles never broke eye contact, willing his words to reach the werewolf whose name he didn’t even know.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the werewolf relaxed, let himself stand up straight.  His shoulders fell and his claws retracted, though his eyes still shone a bright blue.

“I killed her.” He said, “She was my sister, and I didn’t know what was happening.  The guy bit me and then everything was so strange and…she tried to help me.  Tried to figure out what was going on.  But I couldn’t control it.” Tears fell from the corners of his eyes. “I never meant to hurt her, I swear!”

“I know,” Stiles said gently, “The full moon…its hard, but you can learn to control it.  I promise, things will get better.”

“How?” He sounded broken, face betraying the devastation he was feeling within, “What will I have to do?  What will I have to become?”

* * *

Stiles reacted faster than he thought possible.  In fact, he was pretty sure it wasn’t possible.  It was all instinct, all feeling, and felt like he barely brushed the tattoo before the wind burst from his hands, separating Jolene from her intended prey. The two slammed into the walls on opposite sides of the room.  Stiles dashed to the werewolf whose name he still didn’t know, grabbing him by the upper arm.

“We need to go, _now_!” He yelled, pulling the man towards the door until he got the idea in his head and started running alongside Stiles.  That is, until Stiles was suddenly face planting into the concrete, legs grabbed by a mass of vines.  He turned to see Jolene, a trickle of blood making its way down her face, eyes livid.  Barely thinking he bathed the vines in fire, scrambled to his feet, and ran.

The wolf had apparently gained enough good sense to keep going even when his comrade had fallen.  Stiles took a hard right around the brick warehouse and  pumped his legs as hard as he could, propelling himself forward in a dead run.  Adrenaline coursing through him, he reacted before his mind took hold of the situation and vaulted himself over a falling wall with another gust of wind.  Upon landing he kept running, not stopping to think about how his body seemed to know what was happening before he did.

Another wall came down near him, and he evaded as easily.  His thoughts now weren’t about saving an innocent man’s life, they weren’t about his home, they weren’t about the pack.  It was pure survival, escape escape run run _run_.

* * *

 “Oh, sweetie, good job!” She sang as she slunk from the shadows.  Stiles jerked in surprise and the wolf let out a deafening roar.  “Now, now, that’s no way to treat a guest, is it?”

“You lying son of bitch!” The wolf snarled at Stiles, fully changed not, fangs glistening claws sharp.

“Jolene, how…” Stiles whispered, shaking his head in shock, “You weren’t supposed to-”

“I understand that you want to prove yourself, Stiles,” She give his a pitying look, “But this is dangerous work, you shouldn’t have come here alone.”

With a flick of her wrist a hunk of brick flew from the wall and smashed into the back of the wolf’s head.  In the blink of an eye Jolene was next to him, dragging his head up by his hair, grasping his throat with her wrinkled fingers.

“Now, since you were so keen to show me that you’re capable, I’ll give you the honor,” Her sadistic smile seemed genuine, and Stiles had finally had enough.

“No.”

* * *

Stiles kept running.

He ran until the buildings thinned and disappeared. He ran until the desert sand was all that surrounded him.  He ran until his legs literally buckled underneath him and his arms could no longer drag him any further.  And lying there on the cold desert sand as the morning sun started to peak over the edge of the horizon, he stared at the fading stars.

He breathed deeply, air dry and cold, sleep far away and unreachable.  He just breathed, and smiled.  Freedom hurt, but it was sweet.  Lydia would get his letter, she would be able to read it.  She was much to smart to fall for how stupid of a code it was.  The pack would know that he was alive, Derek would know he was alive, that he was sorry for everything that had happened, for all of the pain they had endured because of him.  Strange to think that even after everything that had happened to him, their pain was what he was concerned about.

Derek would read the letter.  Derek would know he was coming home.  Because Stiles had every intention of getting home as fast as his puny, currently exhausted legs could take him.  He was going to go home, march right up to Derek, give him the most passionate kiss that he had ever had the pleasure of receiving, and then keep him in bed for a week.  A wondrous, awesome week that would be more exciting than ever due to Stiles’ newfound stamina.  Maybe a week wouldn’t even be enough.

Stiles kept breathing, in and out, smile plastered on his face as he planned his glorious homecoming.  Just as the sun was starting to pervade the whole sky, his thoughts skipped away from a naked and sweating Derek and stumbled onto a new and belated realization.

The fire, the wind, the jumping and running, it has all felt so instinctual.  He had barely been thinking about the spells as he had used them.  And more than that, he hadn’t touched any of his tattoos.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, disclaimer. I started writing this story as a foray back into fanfic writing. It was an idea I had and decided to run with. I didn't really plan the story out all that much, didn't have much in mind other than the basic premise and that I wanted Stiles to learn magic in prison.
> 
> That said, I feel like this story has really gotten away from me. This chapter was a real struggle to write. I'm sorry if the quality is kinda declining as the story progresses, but I'm finding the more I write the less in love with my writing I become. I've actually been writing some other fics I like much better, but I want to wait to post them until they're more complete, to avoid the same thing that happened with this story.
> 
> Basically, sorry that this is getting ridiculous. I will finish this story if it kills me, however. I'm glad that many of you have stuck with me, and your continued support is amazing. Thank you, thank you, thank you. As always -> beingfrozen.tumblr.com


	10. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Western US

Finding your way home from the middle of a desert is not the easiest task, and it was not one that Stiles ever wanted to repeat.  The fact that he was expecting Jolene to jump out from behind every unassuming cactus was also keeping him on edge, no matter how hilarious the mental image.  He hadn’t been expecting the duel or the frantic running for his life, and he wasn’t dressed for the occasion.  The night was cold and the day was hot as the summer months were closing in.  His hoodie wasn’t doing much to keep the weather at bay.

He was sore and had a raging headache when he woke up the first day, and a stabbing hunger the second day.  He had ended up just walking in what he _thought_ was the right direction, i.e. the one that led towards civilization.  He could have tried to scry a direction, but there were a few issues with that plan.  One, he didn’t quite know the entire procedure for scrying.  Jolene and Walter had really only explained the technique, never demonstrating or teaching him.  Two, if he wanted to try it he didn’t have the right materials anyway.  Where the hell was he supposed to find a perfectly spherical obsidian orb out in the middle of nowhere?  And three, he was really really nervous to try any sort of magic anytime soon.

Though the immediate threat was lessened, Jolene was still relatively close.  She would most likely be on the look-out for Stiles, and any magic he did would be like shooting off a thousand flares and getting a sky writer to draw out “Stiles is here” with a giant arrow pointing to his position. So he ended up just walking in a straight line.  Or at least what he hoped was straight line.  By the end of the second day he was so hungry he was just glad that he was still walking at all.  When his legs finally gave out from under him he closed his eyes and groaned in frustration.

“Stiles, your life sucks,” he said to himself, “Your life sucks a lot.  If there was an award for life suckage you would win. And during your acceptance speech you would get a slap in the face for good measure.”

He let himself breath for a few moments before letting his mind wander.  His letter would hopefully be on its way to Lydia by now.  She would figure it out, he knew she was smart enough.  If she still had the book it would be an added bonus, but Stiles knew his friend well enough to know that she would scour down that ISBN number if it killed her.  Lydia didn’t do well with unsolved mysteries.

He thought about his message, how much it’s meaning had changed over the past few days.  When he first wrote it out it had been ‘Sorry for faking my death and making all of you worry’.  It had quickly grown into a ‘Sorry that I’ve lingered here with this crazy lady for so long, learning how to be a wizard and shit’.  Now it was more of a ‘Sorry that I’ve been inadvertently helping the crazy lady achieve her dreams of starting a kill-all-werewolves club’.

Stiles couldn’t even imagine what would go through their heads when they got the message.  He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about what he had put them through.  Death doesn’t happen to you, he had once told Scott, it happens to everyone around you.  His death had probably torn them to pieces.  His Dad, _god_ his Dad…

It wasn’t something that Stiles hadn’t thought about a thousand times before, hadn’t used to fuel his anger and hatred toward his captors.  But now he was free and he could think about actually getting to see them again, getting to tell his Dad how much he loved him, getting to play video games with Scott again, getting to pull on Lydia’s pigtails and get a rise out of her, getting to hold Derek in his arms and just close his eyes without the fear of opening them again.

Soon, he and Derek could pick up where they left off.  If Derek still wanted him.  That was another lurking thought that Stiles didn’t want to think too much about.  He had broken up with Derek before his fake-death.  It was very likely that Derek had found someone else and moved on.  Well, not _very_ likely.  Derek didn’t have the best track record with relationships, Stiles being the rare exception.  He was broody and growly and had one hell of a bitchy-resting-face problem.  At least until you got to know him.  Stiles had spent so long trying to get him to loosen up, only for one misplaced prison sentence to ruin it all. 

Stiles’ greatest fear, besides the maniac witch on his tail, was that he would get home and Derek would have someone else on his arm, shrug at Stiles and say “You snooze, you lose.”  He had told Derek to move on, told him it was okay to find someone else, but that selfish part of his heart had hoped that Derek would wait, that Derek would be there for him when he got back.  When he had been in prison it hadn’t seemed so far-fetched, but it was possible that upon Stiles’ death Derek had sought solace with someone else.

“Quit being a pansy, Stilinski,” he chided himself, “Go in there and use all your manly charms to win him back.  Use your sex appeal.  Shake them hips.”

“Who’s doin’ what with their hips?” came a confused, elderly voice.  Stiles opened his eyes to see Walter standing over him.  He blinked a few times, equally as confused.

“Oh, hey Walter.  Sorry, hadn’t realized that I feel asleep.”

“You ain’t asleep, you babbling idiot.” He kicked Stiles lightly for good measure, and the gentle jab in his side alerted Stiles to the fact that, for some strange reason, Walter was standing next to him in the middle of the desert.

“I’m not?  Then what…how are you here?”

“I drove here,” and he thumbed behind him, where Stiles turned to see a rusty pickup idling, “Headed out after I got your dream-speak message.  Saw what you did to that warehouse, and boy, you have got a lot of kick in those scrawny arms.”

“That doesn’t make sense…” Stiles mumbled, still not completely understanding the current situation.  Walter didn’t seem to hear him.

“Followed your trail out from there.  Found ya’ here.  Now get your butt off the dirt and get it in the car.”

“Ummm, how about no?” Stiles said as he sat up. The world swam for a moment in his vision.  Walter raised an eyebrow at him, “Not for nothing, but you and Jolene kind of kept me prisoner in a bunker for a couple of months.  I don’t really feel like getting in a car with you.”

“You do realize that you’ve been heading in the opposite direction of every town for 100 miles, don’t ya?” Stiles cheeks flooded with heat.  Of course his natural sense of direction was shit.  Just his luck.

“Fine, point me toward the nearest town and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Uh-huh.  And how you planning on standing with how dehydrated you are?”

“I’ll crawl.”

“And when your arms give out?”

“I’ll…slither.”

Walter let out a sigh, the kind usually saved for annoying children, “Stiles, I ain’t gonna hurt you.  But you’re gonna hurt yourself if you try an’ keep going like this.”

“Look, I get it, you warned me about Jolene.  You don’t like her.  But I don’t really trust you any more that her right now.”

Walter nodded, understanding, “I get that.  I’d tell ya’ that you were an idiot if you felt differently.  But you’re in no position to be refusing help right now.  And if I was able to find you, Jolene can’t be too far behind.”

Stiles glared at him, long and hard.  Finally he let out a deep breath. “Fine,” he caved, “but you’re going to have to help me get to the car.  My legs don’t like me much right now.”

 

 

It was the grittiest, smelliest, cheapest diner that Stiles had ever seen, much less eaten at.  The booth had mysterious stains on it that Stiles didn’t want to know the story behind, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask their frightening waitress either.  The food was greasy, the meat was questionable at best, and his coffee tasted like it had been handcrafted from dirt instead of coffee grinds. 

It was one of the best meals that Stiles ever had.

He ate like he had been starving, which was actually partially true.  The combination of his two day desert trek along with the strict diet Jolene and Walter had kept him on had been torture to a young man whose favorite food groups were ice cream creations and curly fries.  The moment that the triple decker pancakes were placed in front of him, it was as if a chorus of angels descended from on high and started singing Don’t Stop Believing.

“So where are you goin’ from here?” Walter asked.  Stiles chewed his too big mouthful for a moment before swallowing.

“Home.  Everyone I know thinks I’m dead.  Might as well give them one hell of a surpri-"

“You can’t go home.” Walter said ominously.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s where she’ll be expecting you to go.”  A cold dread filtered through Stiles at Walter’s words, “Jolene ain’t stupid.  She’s crazy, but she ain’t stupid.  She’s put too much time and effort into you to lose you now.  She’ll be after you like a cat after a mouse.  And the first place she’s going to check for ya’ is back home.”

“All the more reason to go back,” Stiles argued, “My family is there, my friends.  I’m not going to let Jolene hurt them.”

“You go back there, she’ll kill ya’.  Then she’ll kill your little friends too.” Walter chuckled at his own dark joke and took a bite of his omlette.  Stiles wasn’t laughing.

“I beat her in that warehouse, I can beat her on my own turf.” Walter waved his fork at him.

“Nuh-uh.  You didn’t beat her.  You _got away_ from her.  Running away from somebody ain’t the same thing as winning in a fight against ‘em.”

“So what then?  You want me to let my Dad and my pack die?”

“You would live.” Walter pointed out.

“I’d rather die,” Stiles countered.  Walter held his gaze for a few seconds before dropping his eyes to his plate with a sigh.

“Well then, go back.  It was nice knowin’ ya’.” He said, biting into another mouthful of eggs.

“You really think I couldn’t beat her?” Stiles asked, unsure.  He had been so confident after the warehouse, after getting away with his life.  Surviving the desert.  It seemed like he could do it, with the pack behind him.

“Not sure.  You might get lucky.  Jolene’ll be trying not to kill ya’ if she can help it.  Might be able to use that to your advantage.  But she’s got more practice under her belt than you do.  Knows a lot more.  Can do things you can’t.”

“Like use spells without using the sigils?” Stiles asks, and Walter barks out a curt laugh.

“Yeah, sure.  And I can fart balloon animals.” Walter smirked to himself while Stiles grimaced at the mental image. 

“Is it possible, though?” Stiles needed to know, “To do something like that?  Cast without touching the sigils at all?”

“No.  Well, not technically.  There’s an old legend about a gal who used to be able to do hundreds of years ago.  But it’s just a legend.”

“Who was it?”

“Joan of Arc.”

“Shut the front door.”

“Like I said, it’s just a legend.  Explains a hell of a lot, though, don’t it?”

Stiles took another bite of his pancakes in silence before looking up to Walter, “I did it in the warehouse.”

“Did what?” He responded, eyes not leaving his hashbrowns.

“I threw spells without touching the sigils.” Walter did look up at that, fork poised halfway between plate and mouth.  “It’s not just that.  Jolene never taught me to dream-speak.  I don’t know how I managed to send that message to you, I just sort of…did it.”

Walter put his fork down and reached across the table slowly to grab Stiles’ wrist and pull his arm forward.  He squinted at the symbols inked there, turning his arm over to peer at the underside.  He checked the other arm as well with just as much scrutiny.  When he finally put Stiles’ arm down it looked like someone had slapped him.

“Well, I’ll be damned.  That’s a new one.”

“What is?”

“You ain’t got the sigil for dream-speakin’. You need this one to do it,” and he pointed to a sigil on his own wrist, a twisted set of lines that Stiles didn’t recognize, “but you don’t look like you’ve got it.”

“No, I don’t,” Stiles confirmed, “So…is that…bad?”

“Don’t know,” Walter admitted, scratching his head, “Don’t think it should even be possible.  And you say you was throwing spells without touchin’ nothin’?” Stiles nodded solemnly, “Huh.” He muttered, and then another quiet ‘huh’ to himself.

“Am I some sort of magical freak?” Stiles asked.

“Well, you’re certainly something strange.  Might explain why Jolene was so keen on recruiting you.”

“Well, that’s just swell.  If I wasn’t enough of an outcast already, now I’m a magical oddity. Great.” He rolled out the ‘r’ and shoved more pancakes in his mouth.

“You sure you didn’t just imagine it?” Walter asked, eyes peering at Stiles like he had never seen him before.

“I’m pretty damn sure.  It was all just instinct.  But I was running on so much adrenaline that maybe I’m just not remembering it right.”  Walter nodded, deep in thought.

“Finish your pancakes.  We’ll head out soon and try a few spells.  See if you’re as special as you seem.”

 

 

The scorch mark on the ground was all that was left of the can.  Stiles’ fingers still sizzled with the lighting as he brought his hand back down to his side.  Walter whistled long and loud.

“Well I’ll be damned.” He mumbled, “Ain’t you just some sort o’ wonder child.  A regular golden ticket.”

“Told you I could do it,” Stiles mumbled, but he was still in shock that it had actually worked.

“Did Jolene see you do this?” Walter asked as he walked over to the black patch of ground.

“Don’t think so.  I barely recognized that I was _doing_ it.  She was countering the spells at the same time, so I doubt she had the time to process it.”

“Well then, kid,” he kicked at the dirt, “I think you might actually stand a chance.” And when he smiled at Stiles, Stiles believed him.

 

 

Back in town Walter handed Stiles a stack of cash and a brown paper bag.  Inside was the Encyclopedia and another book, filled with symbols and a lot of Latin writing.

“You won’t have time to get all the tattoos, but that doesn’t seem to be much of an issue you you, now does it?” Walter joked, “My teacher gave me that book when I left ‘im.  It’s got most of the basic symbols and such.  There’s only a few in the world.  Don’t let it fall into the wrong hands.”

“I won’t.” Stiles promised.  They shook hands before Walter got back into his car, Stiles promising to let him know if he survived the ordeal.  Stiles watched as the pick-up drove away before turning to head in the direction of the nearest motel.

 

 

Stiles was nervous to use public transport.  No busses, no trains, no planes, nothing that required an ID or left you with a receipt.  He found himself most often on the side of the road partaking in the time-honored tradition of hitch-hiking.  His father’s warnings about the activity were pushed aside for necessity of staying under the radar.  He figured that all of the axe-murderer tales and kidnapping stories had been mostly scare tactics anyway.  And if they weren’t, then Stiles was more than equipped to handle them.

It was a few days after the start of his journey that a blue minivan sped past him, only to slam on the breaks a few hundred feet down the road.  It put on its flashers and beeped noisily, and Stiles took off running towards it. When he reached the car and the back door slid open, he skidded to a stop.

“YOU!” he yelled, dropping his purchased backpack full or granola bars, beef jerky, and a change of clothes.  The man who had stepped out of the car gave him a sheepish wave.

“Hey man,” the werewolf said, “Didn’t think you were still alive!”

“Me?  I thought you were crushed by a building!  How the hell did you get out?”

“Slipped out while you and grandma were chucking fire at each other.  Which was fucking terrifying, by the way.”

Stiles and werewolf he had saved stared at one another, staring awkwardly across the 10 feet that separated them.  The werewolf scratched the back of his head quickly, and Stiles let out a quiet cough.

“So, I don’t actually know your name, you know.” The werewolf said, and Stiles let out a relieved sigh.

“Thank god, cause I don’t know yours either and I felt like an ass cause you should at least remember the name of the guy you cheated death with.” He laughed gently, “I’m Stiles.”

“Chris.” He answered with his own laugh, “Nice to meet you.  Officially.”

“If you two are done with the morning-after name exchange, can you please get in the car and close the door?” A voice from the van shouted, “You’re letting the air conditioning out.”

Stiles didn’t need to be told twice.  He hopped in behind Chris and shut the door.

Turned out the Chris had done pretty much the same thing Stiles had after getting out of the warehouse: picked a direction and started running.  Only while Stiles had picked a stupid direction, Chris had the benefit of a werewolf’s senses.  He had headed towards civilization, and when he had caught the scent of other wolves had followed it to a small pack.  Telling them his story, they accepted him into the pack and cleaned him up.  Then they had packed up the minivan and gotten the hell out of dodge. 

Maria, the alpha, explained it best. “We could either hold onto territory in the middle of the desert with no redeeming qualities and get involved in a mage war, or we could leave and take a much needed vacation around the US for a bit.  Figured seeing the Grand Canyon sounded like fun.”

“You’re going to be talking to other packs along the way, yeah?” Stiles asked as Maria changed lanes on the highway. 

“Of course.”

“You need to tell them about Jolene.  And any other travelling packs you run across.  If what I’m planning fails, then she’s going to go after them too.  And she’s not gonna be nice.”

“We’ll pass on the word,” she promised, “What exactly is your plan?”

“I’m going to go back home to my pack, and I’m going to fight her when she shows up.”

“Sounds suicidal.  And who is your pack, exactly?”

“Beacon Hills.  Derek Hale is the alpha.”

“You’re _Hale_ pack?” She sounded awed, eyes wide as she took in the road in front of her.

“Uhhh, yeah.”

“Well hot damn.  Didn’t know we had a celebrity in our car.”

“Didn’t know I was one.  Is the Hale name that recognizable?”

“For werewolves it is.  They were a real big family in our circles until that fire a few years ago.  Held most of the northwest.  Territory fell apart when…oh, what was her name, Laura?  When Laura left it sort of just disintegrated.  When word got around that the Hales were back, quite a few heads were turned.”

“It’s just one Hale.  Well, one Hale and one super creepy sorta dead Hale.  We don’t like to talk about it.”

“Pity, sounds like a good story.” 

They drove in silence for a few minutes as Stiles processed the current situation, and planned his next steps.

“How far towards Beacon Hills are you headed?” he asked.

“We were planning on passing through, actually.  Gonna stop in, pay respects, keep on moving.  It’s better for a roaming pack to stay in an established territory than camp out in no-man’s-land.  So we can bring you straight in.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I need to set some things up before I go back.  Jolene will be watching, I can’t just waltz right in.  Plus, everyone sort of thinks I’m dead.”

“Really?  How’d that happen?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You’ve got quite a few of those types of stories.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

 

 

Stiles took the offered band-aid and wrapped it around his thumb.  The paper in front of him with his messy red script sat unassuming, macabre in its seeming innocence. 

“Why did you have to write it in blood, again?” Chris asked, “It’s kind of a creepy way to write letter.”

“Blood is powerful.  If your blood is flowing, you’re alive. Blood is a person’s life, their existence, and magic comes from life.  It’s my blood, so it’s a part of me and my magic.  If Jolene gets her hands on this she won’t be able to mess with it.  Plus, my pack will be able to smell me on it, know that I’m alive for sure.”

Chris seemed to think for a moment before nodding, “Yup, it’s still creepy.”

“You have the address,” Stiles told him as he slid the letter into the envelope, “Just stick it into the mailbox when you leave.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want us to tell Hale about Jolene or any of the stuff that happened?” Chris asked, eyebrow arched.

“Just tell him and the pack to be on their guard.  The less they know the better.  I don’t want them to start looking for trouble, or for me.” Stiles held the letter out, and Chris took it with a smirk.

“Aren’t you and trouble basically the same thing at this point?” Stiles chuckled and nodded.  The man had a point.

“Thanks for this.  And best of luck in the future.  You know, with the whole werewolf thing.  I know it can be a hassle.”

“No, no, I should be thanking you.  I thought my life was over when I was bitten.  And then, in the warehouse…I thought was done for.  You gave me a chance at life.  You’re a good guy, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugged, “I’m trying.”

Chris laughed, genuine, and reached out to grasp Stiles hand and shake it firmly, “Well, keep it up.  And good luck to you too.”

Chris left the hotel room with a wave, and Stiles let himself fall onto the bed.  He was only twenty minutes from home, and every cell in his body was pulling him toward Beacon Hills.  But there were things that needed to be done first, plans that needed to be made.  He couldn’t break now, not when he was so close to being safe and happy and _home_.  There were just a few things to do first.  Stiles looked at himself in the mirror and scowled at what he saw.

Yeah, step one of his plan was definitely a shower.  A _really_ long shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter took so long, I was busy interviewing for jobs for when I graduate college in December. It was literally eating up all of my time and seriously stressing me out. But I am very happy to report that I have formally accepted a full-time position starting in January! I won't say too much about it, but I will say that I will be moving to Florida and my boss is a very famous mouse! It's literally my dream job, and I am so freakin excited!!! Plus, the fact that I have employment lined up had taken a huge weight off of my chest and given me some more free time. 
> 
> I plan on wrapping up this story in another chapter or two. Let me know what you think about this chapter or the story in general! As always -> beingfrozen.tumblr.com/


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